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The absorbing personal story of the most dynamic
leader of the Black Revolution. It is a testament of
great emotional power from which every American
can learn much. But, above all, this book shows the
Malcolm X that very few people knew, the man behind
the stereotyped image of the hate-preacher—a sensitive,
proud, highly intelligent man whose plan to move into
the mainstream of the Black Revolution was cut short
by a hail of assassins’ bullets, a man who felt certain
“he would not live long enough to see this book appear.

“In the agony of [his] self-creation [is] the agony
of an entire.people in their search for identity. No
man has better expressed his people’s trapped
anguish.”

—The New York Review of Books

Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases

for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special
sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF MALCOLM X

With the assistance of Alex Haley
Foreword by Attallah Shabazz
Introduction by M. S. Handler

Epilogue by Alex Haley
Afterword by Ossie Davis

BALLANTINE BOOKS * NEW YORK

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this
book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as
“unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may
have received payment for it.

A Ballantine Book

Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1964 by Alex Haley and Malcolm X
Copyright © 1965 by Alex Haley and Betty Shabazz
Introduction copyright © 1965 by M. S. Handler
Foreword copyright © 1999 by Attallah Shabazz

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Pub-
lishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and
simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited,
Toronto.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random
House, Inc.

“On Malcolm X” by Ossie Davis previously appeared in Group
magazine, and is reprinted by permission.

www. randomhouse.com/BB/

ISBN: 0-345-35068-5

This edition published by arrangement with Grove Press, Inc.
Manufactured in the United States of America

First Ballantine Books Edition: June 1973

63 62 61 60 59

Cover illustrations by Charles Lilly

This book I dedicate to my beloved wife Betty and to our
children whose understanding and whose sacrifices made it
possible for me to do my work.

CONTENTS

ATTALLAH SHABAZZ: FOREWORD

M. S. HANDLER: INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER ONE: NIGHTMARE

CHAPTER TWO: MASCOT

CHAPTER THREE: “HOMEBOY”
CHAPTER FOUR: LAURA

CHAPTER FIVE: HARLEMITE

CHAPTER SIX: DETROIT RED

CHAPTER SEVEN: HUSTLER

CHAPTER EIGHT: TRAPPED

CHAPTER NINE: CAUGHT

CHAPTER TEN: SATAN

CHAPTER ELEVEN: SAVED

CHAPTER TWELVE: SAVIOR

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: MINISTER MALCOLM X
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: BLACK MUSLIMS
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: ICARUS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: OUT

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: MECCA

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: EL-HAJJ MALIK EL-SHABAZZ
CHAPTER NINETEEN: 1965

ALEX HALEY: EPILOGUE

OSSIE DAVIS: ON MALCOM X

111
129
137
154
172
195
215
240
271
294
325
349
37]
390
464

ATTALLAH SHABAZZ

FOREWORD

Behold, America. Just when our country’s cultural evolution ap-
pears to have stagnated and we’ve grown insensitive to justice,
the U.S. Postal Service has issued a commemorative stamp to
honor one of our country’s most outspoken revolutionaries—my
father, Malcolm X Shabazz. This national commemoration,
three decades after his lifetime, pays tribute to his immeasurable
contributions on behalf of one’s innate right to self-preservation
and human dignity.

Although Malcolm X is no longer with us physically, tens of
millions have gotten to know him through this timeless volume
that you now hold in your hands. The Autobiography of Malcolm
X has served as an everlasting testament to my father’s life and
legacy. In light of the cultural and political climate of the 1960s,
when the book was first published, both my father and my god-
father, Alex Haley, would feel great peace in knowing that
Time magazine’s “Best of the Century” issue named The Auto-
biography of Malcolm X one of the top ten works of nonfiction of
this century. My father’s life story stands alongside such monu-
mental works as The Diary of Anne Frank and others. A lover of
language, my father believed very much in the power of words to
influence and transform lives.

His own life stands as an affirmation of that power. Our litera-
ture and our history are filled with stories of men and women
whose will and inner strength nourished their rise from impover-
ishment to wealth, whether material, spiritual, or educational. My
father’s life and its stages of personal metamorphosis and enlight-
enment documented in this text stand as a confirmation of how
one can, through witness and transformation, ultimately claim
one’s own divine path. At this point in my life, and significantly as

X THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

his daughter, it is quite meaningful for me to contribute my prose
to this living record.

My godfather, Alex Haley, bequeathed me the opportunity to
write this foreword to my father’s autobiography. He had set the
process in motion almost a year before the offer was formally
brought to my attention in the fall of 1992. It was, indeed, a spiri-
tual gift of timing. Eight months earlier, in February 1992, the
man who was the author of the internationally acclaimed Roots
passed away suddenly in the middle of the night. Alex Haley and
I had discussed the possibility of my writing his autobiography
to acknowledge our literary circle, our family of writers—my fa-
ther to him and him to me.

Six years have passed since I received this initial request to pre-
pare a new foreword for my father’s life story. My godfather’s wish
was that I commemorate my father’s life by wnting about some of
the significant events that have served as a postscript for his ex-
traordinary life story, but to do this it 1s essential to begin with the
legacy that my father himself was heir to from the beginning.

In 1919, my paternal grandparents, Earl and Louisa Little,
married and began their large family of eight children. At the
same time they both worked steadfastly as crusaders for Marcus
Garvey’s Universal Negro Improvement Association, acting as
chapter president and writer/translator for more than a decade.
Their children were deeply involved and inspired by their par-
ents’ mission to encourage self-reliance and uphold a sense of
empowerment for people of the African Diaspora.

Given the turbulence, fear, and despair of the depression era,
with its economic droughts and racial and social inequities, my
grandparents could never have imagined that one of their own
children would have his likeness on a United States postal stamp
before the century’s end.

Eighty years later, on January 20, 1999, pride filled Harlem’s
historic Apollo Theatre as six of Earl and Louisa Little’s grand-
daughters sat encircled by a body of fifteen hundred, as family,
friends, esteemed guests, and well-wishers gathered to celebrate
a momentous occasion—the unveiling of the United States
Postal Service’s newest release in its Black Heritage Stamp
Series.

The issuance of the stamp with the image of El-Hajj Malik E]-
Shabazz—known to the world as Malcolm X and fondly loved
by myself and my five sisters as Daddy—will provide a source of
eternal pride to his children. While this was indeed a glorious
moment, it does not cancel the pain of the loss of both our par-

FOREWORD xX)

ents, or even kiss away the ache of their absence. What it cer-
tainly does is add to the blessings of our dowry.

The stamp also serves as a reminder of the stock from which
we were born and confirms significantly that how one lives his or
her life today stands as a testament to one’s forever after.

In his genuine humility and pure dedication to service, my fa-
ther had no idea of the potency of his deeds, of the impact his life
would have on others, or of the legacy that was to unfold. As he
and my godfather, Alex Haley, worked diligently to complete
this classic work—in person, from airport telephones, via ship to
shore, or over foreign wire services—he could never have imag-
ined by America’s tone in his final days that his words, phi-
losophy, and wisdom would be so appreciated and honored
around the world, or that it would still offer inspiration and guid-
ance to So many.

In my father’s absence, my mother nurtured and protected the
significance and value of her husband’s endless devotion to
human rights. She was thrilled by the opening discussions about
her husband’s image appearing on a U.S. postal stamp. From her
perspective, it was not as inconceivable as others have found it.
To my mother, it was his due.

As the house lights dimmed in the Apollo Theatre, the flick-
ering images of black-and-white photographs and film clips on
the screen chronicled my father’s life. Bittersweet, his youthful
face and broad smile caressed my heart. As the documentary
film moved forward, the voice-over of our dear family friend
and loving “uncle” actor Ossie Davis delivered the eulogy from
my father’s funeral in 1965. This became the backdrop for the
montage of nostalgic childhood memories that played in my
mind. Life with both parents and my little sisters. Life joyous
and uninterrupted.

When people ask how my mother managed to keep my fa-
ther’s memory alive, all I can say is—for my mother, he never
left. He never left her. He never left us. My father’s spiritual pres-
ence 1s what sustained my mother. And we, their children, were
the beneficiaries of their timeless love for one another.

Born and raised in a family that was culturally varied, I in-
nately gravitated to the rhythms of the world. Mommie was our
constant, as many mothers are. Daddy was the jubilant energy in
our world. He was not at all like the descriptions I grew up
hearing. In addition to being determined, focused, honest, he
was also greatly humorous, delightful, and boy-like, while at the
same time a strong, firm male presence in a house filled with

X11 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

little women. His women. My sisters, me, and our mother. A col-
laboration of qualities that enchants me even now.

‘. . If you knew him you would know why we must honor
him,” Uncle Ossie’s voice continued. “Malcolm was our man-
hood, our living, black manhood. . . . and, in honoring him, we
honor the best in ourselves. . . .”

A spotlight on the Apollo podium brought me back to the pres-
ent as the announcer introduced Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis, the
first of an intimate selection of my father’s esteemed comrades
and appreciators from the “front line” to speak and share their
remembrances.

Aunt Ruby opened, “What a privilege to witness the radical
gone respectable in our times. . . ”” Uncle Ossie continued, “We
in this community look upon this commemorative stamp finally
as America’s stamp of approval...”

When I had mentioned the issuance of the stamp to others, the
news simply stopped folks in their tracks. Touched. Teary-eyed.
They could hardly believe it. They had to catch their breath, or
ask me to repeat myself. “(How can this be?” they wondered. “A
stamp with Brother Malcolm’s face on it?” “What does it
mean?” “Is America really ready for a Malcolm X stamp, even if
it is thirty-four years after his assassination?”

I reflected on the message of Congressman Chaka Fattah, the
ranking Democrat on the Postal subcommittee, who com-
mented, ‘“‘There is no more appropriate honor than this stamp be-
cause Malcolm X sent all of us a message through his life and his
life’s work.

“Stamps are affixed to envelopes that contain messages, and
when we receive an envelope with this particular stamp on it
hopefully it is a message that will speak again to the conscience
of this nation. Hopefully not just to those of African descent in
America but to those who want to speak and be heard on the
question of human rights throughout the world. To this day Mal-
colm X stands as a leader. His thoughts, his ideas, his conviction,
and his courage provide an inspiration even now to new genera-
tions that come.”

I’ve asked myself, What change in our society today permits
the reevaluation of my father’s convictions or his stance on the
human injustices that plagued the international landscape? For
years, he’s been the subject of a patchwork of commentaries, nu-
merous judgments, and endless character assessments from a
spectrum of self-appointed experts. But, in spite of the psycho-

FOREWORD _ Xiil

analysis, Malcolm will always be exactly who he is, whether or
not we as a society ever succeed in figuring him out. Truth does
not change, only our awareness of it.

Not everyone agreed with my father’s philosophy or method-
ology; he was considered complicated, intricate, and complex.
Nevertheless, he was always a focused man with a commitment
and a program. His plan of action, regardless of the stages of his
life, his agenda, and his perspective were always poignantly
clear.

Malcolm X never advocated violence. He was an advocate of
cultural and social reconstruction—until a balance of equality was
shared, “by any means necessary.” Generally, this phrase of his
was misused, even by those who were his supporters. But the state-
ment was intended to encourage a paralyzed constituent of
American culture to consider the range of options to which they
were entitled—the “means.” “By any means necessary” meant ex-
amine the obstacles, determine the vision, find the resolve, and
explore the alternatives toward dissolving the obstacles. Anyone
truly familiar with my father’s ideology, autobiography, and
speeches sincerely understands the significance of the now-
famous phrase.

My father affected Americans—black and white—in untold
measure and not always in ways as definitive as census charts
and polls have dictated. We’ve misrepresented the silent ma-
jority on both sides. There were black folks who carried as much
disdain for my father as some white folks did, and then there
were some white folks for whom his life’s lessons were as valu-
able a blueprint for personal and spiritual development as they
have been for many black folks. Nevertheless, within the range
of the boisterous and the silent there are still folks brown, red,
and yellow on this continent and elsewhere who honor and re-
spect the true message of Malcolm X Shabazz.

Fortunately, as a child, my surroundings were filled with my
father’s partners for social change. This warm, devoted circle of
people was always on the front lines of the struggle, working to
ensure the rightful equilibrium of human nghts—not just domes-
tically, but globally—‘‘by any means necessary.” Whether they
were persons of note or simply hardworking citizens, these indi-
viduals in my early life were missionaries of justice, each com-
mitted to doing his or her part.

As the dedication ceremony continued at the Apollo, the
master of ceremonies, activist-entertainer Harry Belafonte—yet

XIV THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

another childhood “uncle”—framed the importance of this his-
toric moment for the audience assembled.

“Each year the Postal Service receives more than forty thou-
sand requests recommending subjects for U.S. stamps. Only thirty
or so are chosen. Short of a national monument in Washington—
and that’s not a bad idea—a stamp is among the highest honors
that our country can pay to any of its citizens.”

The El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz/Malcolm X stamp 1s the
twenty-second in the Black Heritage Series, which was inaugu-
rated in 1978. It joins such luminaries as Harriet Tubman, Fred-
erick Douglass, A. Philip Randolph, Mary McLeod Bethune,
Martin Luther King, Jr., and others. I am hopeful that the initial
printing of 100 million stamps will be some inspiration to those
who collect them or pass them on as gifts to represent or en-
courage one’s personal enlightenment and triumph.

What my father aspired to be and what Allah had destined
for him was nurtured chiefly by the fertile tutelage of his par-
ents while his family was still together and thriving as a unit.
This was before his father’s murder by the Klan, his mother’s
emotional breakdown, and the subsequent scattering of his sib-
lings and himself into an inadequate and inattentive foster care
system.

My grandmother had a direct hand in the cultural, social, and
intellectual education of her children. The attitude of people of
color during the ’20s and ’30s festered with racial tension that
produced varying degrees of misguided social and personal
paralysis. Knowing this and being globally educated members
of the Garvey movement cognizant of the true ongins of the
African in the Western Hemisphere, both my grandmother and
her husband were intent on equipping their children with a clear
awareness of the seed of their ongins and its ancestral power.
They knew that this would provide a base of strength for their
children. My grandmother knew that in spite of America’s so-
cial climate, her children would be able to discern for them-
selves when an act was generated by pure racism, or simply by
ignorance.

For example, there are many who know the story about when
my father, while on the honor roll and the eighth-grade class
president, was told by his white teacher that his dream to be a
lawyer was unrealistic for a “colored boy.” Maybe he should
consider carpentry. . .. He shared this story with us directly. The
teacher actually admired my father greatly and didn’t want to en-
courage him to enter a field of study that he believed wouldn’t

FOREWORD XV

allow my father to excel. Misguided, yet well intended. A teacher
crippled by a country that offered little promise or future for its
indigenous and colored inhabitants.

Without the strong support of life with his parents and siblings
under one roof and chafing under foster parents and teachers
imposing limited state policies, Malcolm simply dropped out.

This is usually where the recounting of my father’s life be-
gins. In the street. Hustling, numbers running, stealing . . .
Indeed these accounts were factual and he was always the first
to tell them. But if his first fourteen years hadn’t been rooted in
a healthy diet of education and the nchness of his heritage,
Malcolm wouldn’t have found himself gravitating to the prison
libraries after he was incarcerated. The movie Malcolm xX,
which was originally contracted as X: The Movie, shows him
learning how to read the dictionary as if he didn’t already know
how. The truth is, it had been a while since he’d read anything.
But after being reacquainted with books, he proceeded to out-
read the library stock. I’ve seen letters that my father wrote
from prison in his early twenties, eagerly looking for the third
volume of a text, or wanting help to track down out-of-print
books, or even suggesting books to his friends and family on the
outside.

The honor roll student reappeared as the layers of street life
faded. He read so much that he had to begin to wear glasses.

With the encouragement of his brothers, he began studying
the tenets of the Nation of Islam. While the Little brothers didn’t
adhere to all of the teachings personally, they did believe it was
the only current American-based ideology that had the potential
to unify black people and teach self-pride the way their child-
hood affiliation with the Garvey movement had done. Also, the
brothers believed that through the Nation of Islam they could fi-
nally become part of a larger family that could reunite them once
again.

It was as a result of the documentary he was producing on the
Nation of Islam that Mike Wallace, an uncompromising, truth-
seeking pioneer of broadcast journalism and now the senior cor-
respondent of 60 Minutes, first met my father on an assignment.
He recalled those early meetings in his remarks at the stamp’s
unveiling:

“It was forty years ago, back in 1959, that I first heard about a
man who called himself Malcolm X. We at Channel 13 had set
out to produce a documentary that we had intended to call ‘The
Hate That Hate Produced.’ It was a report about a group and

XV1 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

a man just beginning to get some attention in the white world.
The group was the Black Muslims and their leader was Elijah
Muhammad. [When] we finally broadcast the documentary,
America at large finally learned about the Nation and their desire
to separate from the white man. Their hatred of the white man for
that effectively was their credo back then: The white man hates
us, so we should hate the white man back. Not long after the
broadcast, which caused a considerable stir, Louis Lomax in-
vited me to sit down for breakfast for my first meeting with
Malcolm, and strangely and rather swiftly after that morning a
curious friendship began to develop, and slowly a trust. And on
my part a growing understanding and eventually an admiration
for aman with a daring mind and heart. And gradually it became
apparent to me that here was a genuine, compassionate, and far-
seeing leader in the making. A man utterly devoted to his people,
but at the same time he was bent on reconciliation between the
races in America.

“And that, of course, that was heresy to the Nation of Islam at
the time.

“Malcolm was still evolving, still finding his way, still finding
his constituency back then when he was struck down—to him
not unexpectedly—struck down by forces who feared that his
way, his leadership, might be a serious threat to their power. I
have treasured the memory of the Malcolm that I knew. I know
he trusted me as a reporter, but in the few years that I had the
chance to know him, he sent me on my own voyage of reportorial
discovery and understanding.

“{The] stamp that honors him today is the kind of recognition
he deserves as a courageous American hero.”

In time my father’s growth and independence would be his un-
doing. The Nation reprimanded him, stripped him of all powers
of attorney, silenced him, and then exiled him. At first his expul-
sion left him feeling like a man without a home, much the way it
had been in his childhood. Ultimately, however, it gave him the
freedom he needed.

He finally began accepting long-standing invitations he’d re-
ceived to travel abroad. There were many foreign heads of state
and prime ministers who had long taken note cf this charismatic
champion of the people.

With my mother’s blessings for his journey, my father set out
to visit Kwame Nkrumah of Ghana, Nasser of Egypt, Prince
Faisal of Saudi Arabia, and more. The warm welcomes and in-

FOREWORD xvii

stant paternal relationships became an essential component of
his cleansing and rebirth as he traveled throughout Europe,
Africa, and the Middle East, culminating in his great pilgrimage
to Mecca.

As my father’s philosophy expanded, he began to empower,
enlighten, and embrace an untold populace extending far be-
yond the limits of governmental control. However, as long as
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., remained in the South, and my fa-
ther in the North, neither was too difficult to monitor. But when
my father and Dr. King became colleagues and decided to
bridge their two philosophies and unite the American common-
wealth toward a greater goal, they both became tremendous
threats to the status quo. Sadly, this fear was shared by some of
their own constituents and supporters who believed that the
union of both would weaken or detract from the strength of each
movement.

One man whose brethrenship never wavered was the Hon-
orable Percy Sutton, my father’s attorney and a perpetual drum
for our family, who approached the podium at the Apollo. He
paused reflectively and warmly paid tribute to my father, while
placing my father’s life in its proper perspective:

“It is a miracle, really, if you think about it!” The audience
burst into applause. “.. . The journey of Malcolm X was long
and hard. ... I can remember a Minister Malcolm that nobody
wanted to be near; lawyers, accountants, persons of consequence
to the black community . .. were afraid to be identified with him,
afraid to be seen with him....

“We would invite them to come because we needed lawyers,
we needed doctors, we needed persons of ability, but they were
frightened, they were fnghtened by other people’s attitudes
toward Minister Malcolm. ...

“Let me for a moment tell you who Malcolm X was. Malcolm
was not a spiteful man. Malcolm X was a revolutionary. But
he was not a mean-spirited revolutionary, he was a gentle man. A
kind man, a concerned man.

‘It was so bad, ladies and gentleman, that even at Malcolm’s
death there were people who were afraid to come to the funeral... ..
There was not a major black church in the entire city of New York
that was willing to let us bury him from their edifices. It was a small
church up on Amsterdam Avenue [the Faith Temple Church of
God] that permitted us to come.”

Looking into Mr. Sutton’s face and seeing him diplomati-
cally balance all that he knew of my parents’ challenges brought

XV1ll ©THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

back an old sadness, one that had not healed since the loss of his
“little sister,’ my mother, Betty. Feeling Mr. Sutton’s steadfast
devotion, I found myself massaging the ache from my own heart
as I reflected on America’s treatment of my parents during my
childhood. Despite my youthful joys and sense of safety, the
trials my parents faced were unrelenting. As well, the way my fa-
ther was regarded during his lifetime robbed him of any peace in
knowing that his life and contributions mattered, and that his
family would live without jeopardy or repercussion.

Now, perhaps sanctioned by a karmic wave of “in due time,”
America is acknowledging Malcolm yet again.

The Honorable S. David Fineman, member of the Board of
Governors of the U.S. Postal Service, commented on the appro-
priateness of this acknowledgment during his introduction to the
stamp’s official unveiling, “Today we honor not only a great
African American but a great American. Malcolm X was one of
the most charismatic and pivotal figures of our time. He was a
passionate and persuasive voice for change, and his controver-
sial ideas helped bring race relations to a national stage.

“[Malcolm] X poured his energy and anger into speaking the
truth about the plight of African Americans. He spoke with a rare
passion and eloquence. He became a worldwide hero. A symbol
of strength and defiance. He wasn’t shy about telling us where
society was going wrong.

[“Although] it has been thirty-four years since we lost Malcolm
X, his words, his voice, his vision, his story of transformation lives
on. They have become part of us in a journey to wholeness.

“‘We must never forget the challenge Malcolm X issued to us.
‘Let us learn to live together in justice and love.’ ”’

J had long known of the individual and cultural values that
others placed on my father’s life. But I would learn of another
measurement and display of that value in the marketplace.

On October 2, 1992, I was on location in southern Africa pro-
ducing a segment for a documentary film. During a break in the
day, I returned to my hotel room for my afternoon siesta.

This particular afternoon, I turned on my television and
searched until I found a CNN broadcast. Global news commen-
taries now became the backdrop in my room. | then pulled down
the top sheet and blanket on my bed so I could rest. No sooner
had my head touched the pillow, I began to fade, exchanging
conscious sounds of the television for those of my inner
thoughts. But in a matter of moments | was interrupted by the

FOREWORD Xix

broadcaster stating, “Earlier today the Alex Haley estate auc-
tioned off his items. . . .” I instantly sat up and listened in dis-
belief. The newscast continued, ‘““Among the items sold was the
original manuscript of The Autobiography of Malcolm X, with
actual handwritten notes by Malcolm X himself.”

I cannot possibly recapture in words how I felt at that instant.
It seemed inconceivable that such a personal and historic docu-
ment could be bartered away so carelessly.

It was yet another loss to contend with. I was still broken-
hearted about my godfather being gone, and greatly disappointed
by the decision to diminish the value of his life’s contributions by
way of the auction block, a symbol that he fought so hard to dis-
mantle in the telling of Roots. Doubly painful was the fact that
this bidding war included a part of me and my family with neither
our permission nor participation. Had anyone thought to offer
my father’s wife and children first nght of refusal?

I jotted down as much data as possible during the news cov-
erage and then called the legal firm handling my godfather’s es-
tate auction in Tennessee. Although I did reach a representative,
little information was given over the telephone so I scheduled a
subsequent call following my return to the States.

During my long hours of travel across the Atlantic, I worried
about how this gross display may have been tugging at my
mother. How was she feeling about it all? As it was, she’d be-
come increasingly busy due to the explosion of interest about her
husband, and the preparations for the release of X: The Movie.

Malcolm X had been reborn during this period. It was ap-
proximately six weeks prior to the world premiere and my
mother and I were about to embark on a press junket that was to
exceed a hundred interviews—print, electronic, video—to pro-
mote the film and discuss the resurgence of Malcolm.

The vibrant, pop-culture marketing of the film gave people
permission to claim and learn about Malcolm in a forum that
was not threatening. For people who didn’t know anything about
his life, America now provided a healthier, safer atmosphere to
do so. It also gave the public the freedom and opportunity to talk
about Malcolm out loud, as opposed to in the murmured huddles
that reflected the climate of the previous generation.

So much of the public and the media were under the impres-
sion that the making of X: The Movie was a new venture. That its
director had to battle alone, tooth and nail, on behalf of 35 mil-
lion black Americans. Things aren’t always as they seem. The
components in the making of this film were very significant and

XX THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

intertwined like the main branches on a family tree. They were
not to be forgotten.

Shortly after my father’s assassination in 1965 and the publi-
cation of The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Marvin Worth, a
friend of my father’s from their teenage years, approached Alex
and my mother about making a film about my father’s life. Once
both agreed, Marvin brought James Baldwin on board to write
the script and Arnold Perl to modify the screenplay. During what
was to take twenty-five years to realization, Marvin Worth pro-
duced the Warner Bros. documentary E/-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz.
This was the first definitive film stock collection of the life of
Malcolm X and it traveled extensively throughout the nation’s
university circuit as well as to civil rights and Afro-Amenican na-
tionalist events. In the meantime, this fraternity of men worked
diligently against all setbacks and odds to create a film respect-
fully representative of their brother, now gone—the man who, in
their eyes, America had betrayed.

But old attitudes and distorted stubborn impressions of my fa-
ther outlived Arnold Perl and James Baldwin. Marvin Worth was
the lone torchbearer, a thorn in Hollywood’s side, holding true to
the initial dream for almost twenty-five years, despite the taboo
image of my father. Single-handedly, while keeping my mother
abreast of all updates, he continued to commission writers again
and again.

Marvin’s tenacity was astonishing, to the dismay of many. His
dedication and faithfulness were due to his own personal loyalty
to my parents and his passion for displaying onscreen the in-
tegrity and power of my father’s message.

In the late ’70s, Marvin began to include me informally in the
process of the film development. This became very cathartic for
me. I accompanied him to meetings with prospective directors
and writers. Shortly thereafter, I began reading through different
drafts submitted, and I recall him telling me, “Some of them are
overwriting. They are trying to ‘create’ Malcolm as the hero. I
just told them to start from scratch; if you write honestly, the
hero will emerge.”

Those who knew Malcolm X Shabazz personally wanted to be
sure that the negative myth around his memory would be erased
by portraying the truths of his mission, and the depth of his heart.

Finally, it was the right time. In 1991, without any further de-
lays, the deal to make the film of my father’s life came through. A
long-awaited dream was to be realized. But before it made it to
the screen, we lost Alex.

FOREWORD XxXi

My father, James Baldwin, Arnold Perl, and my godfather,
Alex Haley, were all with us in spirit as my mother, her daugh-
ters, and Marvin Worth journeyed forth toward the final realiza-
tion of this history-making film, which not only made it come to
life, it ignited a cultural phenomenon.

During this period, total sales of The Autobiography of Mal-
colm X reached record numbers. Nearly 3 million copies have
been sold worldwide. At least twenty new literary works that
used my father’s life as a subject appeared on bookshelves.
Young males, newly born, were being named Malcolm, Malik,
and Omowale after my father. His philosophy, speeches, and life
transitions were now being adopted by a whole new generation
of youngsters, internationally.

Adult appreciators were coming out of the closet, waving
their Malcolm banners boldly. Both American and foreign stu-
dents utilized him as their prototype for human development,
spiritual dedication, and equality.

Parents of the 90s were not as apprehensive as the parents of
the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. Instead, as their many letters and com-
ments informed me, they were relieved that at a stage when their
children’s discipline and social mores were being challenged,
their son or daughter had claimed characteristics and habits as-
sociated with Malcolm’s.

Psychologists, professors, journalists, and critics rediscovered
Malcolm X for review and general analysis. New documentaries
unfolded, revealing film footage long existing yet previously
edited from cultural consumption.

The sensations, passions, and sincerities of this black American
crusader, plus his new crossover and international marketability,
now challenged all the preceding assessments of twentieth-
century historians, social experts, the media, and most pointedly
our government.

The resurrection of Malcolm X also precipitated a new wave
of unauthorized exploitation of his image. In the early days—
the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, before my father’s likeness had become
a licensed commodity—my mother didn’t mind the bootlegged
T-shirts, cassette tapes, and framed photos being sold at various
events around the country during his birthday, Black History
Month, and the like. In those years she felt it was one of the
pulses that kept Malcolm alive on campuses, in community
centers, and on cultural occasions. As a mother and educator,
she was comforted by the thought that such remembrances

XX1l_ THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

would enable young people to have an opportunity to be
exposed to her husband, ask questions, learn, and achieve. Pass
it on!

When people commented on the exploitation, she’d gen-
erously reply, “It’s love that’s making them do this for my
husband.”

On the other hand, if the intentions of the merchant were not
honorable, you'd better believe that she’d be heading in their di-
rection to inform them of their malfeasance and impropriety. It
was imperative to my mother that the memory of her husband
be respected with the honor she knew he deserved. It was not
okay to mistreat her husband. Not okay. In his absence, for more
than thirty years, she tirelessly guarded his legacy and fought to
ensure that his ideology was clear. For her, it was essential that
if she was going to lose her lifemate to the struggle, then those
for whom he had struggled must be educated. They must be
made aware of the conviction, dedication, and sacrifices he
made on behalf of his faith in humanity and his mission to unite
us as ohne community, certain of our inherent nght to our own
destiny. My mother took note of anyone who maligned any
characteristic of her husband or anything associated with him.

To my mother, Malcolm X Shabazz was reserved for herself,
her children, and the many persons, young and mature, who have
been fortified, caressed, and inspired to employ aspects of my fa-
ther’s life lessons and personal discoveries as a bridge to their
own inner strength and as a foundation for their “personhood.”

‘“Personhood” is a word I first heard as I listened to the elo-
quence of Brother Randall Robinson, president of the TransAfrica
Forum, during his remarks at the Apollo commemoration. While
he is a generation younger than my father, both he and his elder
brother Max always symbolized a genuine and authentic con-
tinuity throughout the struggle. They are men of their word, like
Haki Madhubuti, Kweisi Mfume, and Danny Glover—the few
in their generation who say it, mean it, and live it. Thank God
for them as they continue to make certain that my father’s beat
goes on.

“I grew up in the Old South in Richmond, Virginia,’ said
Brother Randall Robinson.

“T am one of the unfortunate millions who never knew or met
Malcolm X.

“So perhaps I can presume to speak for those millions like me,
then and now, when I say that Malcolm X was a shining model
for a new, whole, and proud black personhood.

FOREWORD Xxill

“Before we in the South could see through the mean veil of
Southern segregation—there was Malcolm X.

“Before we could function beyond the humiliation of South-
ern bigotry—there was Malcolm X.

“Before we could come to know Africa’s glorious past—there
was Malcolm X.

“Before we could find our self-esteem and self-respect—there
was Malcolm X.

“And we owe him so dearly in ways our young must never be
allowed to forget.

“Where we have now the very possibility of courage—we owe
Malcolm X.

“Where we have the wisdom to search for our history before
the Atlantic slave trade—we owe Malcolm X.

“Where we have the political integrity to simply stand for
something because it is right—we owe Malcolm X.

“It is not often that an American government institution
honors those who embody a whole and uncompromised truth.
But today is one such rare occasion. And I will keep it in my
heart for the rest of my life.”

At that moment, Brother Robinson spoke for all of us, and I
will forever carry in my heart the sincerities of that ceremony. In
particular, I will remember that as my five younger sisters and |
gathered onstage for Harry Belafonte’s closing remarks, I re-
mained full. As I listened to the final notes sung by the Boys
Choir of Harlem their song’s message still lingered in my heart:
“All black boys are born of heroes.”

I thought of my father and his parents, my mother and her par-
ents, each family’s respective lineage and history of participa-
tion in social movements—Garvey on one side and Booker T.
Washington on the other. I thought of my sisters and I standing
there, parentless, yet in constant celebration of our parents’ lives.
We are blessed every day by the union and the victorious so-
journs that Malcolm X Shabazz and his beloved Betty Saunders
Shabazz shared on this earth.

When I first realized that my mother wouldn’t be here to wit-
ness her husband’s likeness being unveiled on a United States
postal stamp, after participating in the initial discussions, a
lonely tear began to slip down my cheek. But then it dawned on
me that she wasn’t missing the occasion. In fact, she had the best
seat in the house. She is now where she longed to be. Beside her

XXIV THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

husband. And together they are toasting our healthy continuance
and productive lives.

As their eldest, I have pledged time and again to care for their
daughters, my younger sisters, in their memory, in their honor,
and with their celestial guidance.

When the curtain descends on this current wave of attention
and the thematic celebrations cool down, my sisters and I will re-
main proud. Proud of a man and his wife, proud of a cause and a
heartbeat that was a metronome for us long before the crossover
audience considered them worthy of praise. We, the Shabazz
daughters and our children, will forever be nurtured by our
legacy.

My inherent idealism yearns for the issuance of the commemo-
rative stamp and the living document of The Autobiography of
Malcolm X to continue to bridge ignorance with insight, and de-
spondency with hope. It is essential for people to trust—even
through long periods when dreams may appear to have been de-
ferred, delayed, and overshadowed—that there comes a time
when an unwavering will, a strong belief, and endless prayers
bring great visions to realization.

The Autobiography of Malcolm X is evidence of one man’s
will and belief in prayer and purpose. As you read my father’s
autobiography, whether for the first time or after a long absence,
it is my hope that you will come to know him foremost as a man.
A man who lived to serve—initially a specific people, then a na-
tion, and eventually all people of the world. Some have said that
my father was ahead of his time, but the truth is he was on time
and perhaps we were late. I trust that through his words we may
come to honor and respect all members of the human family as
he did. In closing, I offer you my father’s own words: “One day,
may we all meet together in the light of understanding.”

M.S. HANDLER
INTRODUCTION

The Sunday before he was to officially announce his rupture with
Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X came to my home to discuss his
plans and give me some necessary documentation.

Mrs. Handler had never met Malcolm before this fateful visit.
She served us coffee and cakes while Malcolm spoke in the
courteous, gentle manner that was his in private. It was obvious
to me that Mrs. Handler was impressed by Malcolm. His per-
sonality filled our living room.

Malcolm’s attitude was that of a man who had reached a
crossroads in his life and was making a choice under an inner
compulsion. A wistful smile illuminated his countenance from
time to time—a smile that said many things. I felt uneasy be-
cause Malcolm was evidently trying to say something which his
pride and dignity prevented him from expressing. I sensed that
Malcolm was not confident he would succeed in escaping from
the shadowy world which had held him in thrall.

Mrs. Handler was quiet and thoughtful after Malcolm’s de-
parture. Looking up suddenly, she said:

“You know, it was like having tea with a black panther.”

The description startled me. The black panther is an aristocrat
in the animal kingdom. He is beautiful. He is dangerous. As a
man, Malcolm X had the physical bearing and the inner self-
confidence of a born aristocrat. And he was potentially danger-
ous. No man in our time aroused fear and hatred in the white
man as did Malcolm, because in him the white man sensed an
implacable foe who could not be had for any price—a man un-
reservedly committed to the cause of liberating the black man

XXV1 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

in American society rather than integrating the black man into
that society.

My first meeting with Malcolm X took place in March 1963
in the Muslim restaurant of Temple Number Seven on Lenox
Avenue. I had been assigned by The New York Times to inves-
tigate the growing pressures within the Negro community. Thirty
years of experience as a reporter in Western and Eastern Europe
had taught me that the forces in a developing social struggle are
frequently buried beneath the visible surface and make them-
selves felt in many ways long before they burst out into the open.
These generative forces make themselves felt through the power
of an idea long before their organizational forms can openly
challenge the establishment. It is the merit of European political
scientists and sociologists to give a high priority to the power of
ideas in a social struggle. In the United States, it is our weakness
to confuse the numerical strength of an organization and the
publicity attached to leaders with the germinating forces that
sow the seeds of social upheaval in our community.

In studying the growing pressures within the Negro commu-
nity, I had not only to seek the opinions of the established lead-
ers of the civil rights organizations but the opinions of those
working in the penumbra of the movement—“underground,”
so to speak. This is why I sought out Malcolm X, whose ideas
had reached me through the medium of Negro integrationists.
Their thinking was already reflecting a high degree of nascent
Negro nationalism.

I did not know what to expect as I waited for Malcolm. I was
the only white person in the restaurant, an immaculate establish-
ment tended by somber, handsome, uncommunicative Negroes.
Signs reading “Smoking Forbidden” were pasted on the highly
polished mirrors. I was served coffee but became uneasy in
this aseptic, silent atmosphere as time passed. Malcolm finally
arrived. He was very tall, handsome, of impressive bearing. His
skin had a bronze hue.

I rose to greet him and extended my hand. Malcolm’s hand
came up slowly. I had the impression it was difficult for him to
take my hand, but, noblesse oblige, he did. Malcolm then did a
curious thing which he always repeated whenever we met in
public in a restaurant in New York or Washington. He asked
whether I would mind if he took a seat facing the door. I had

INTRODUCTION XXVIii

had similar requests put to me in Eastern European capitals.
Malcolm was on the alert; he wished to see every person who
entered the restaurant. I quickly realized that Malcolm con-
stantly walked in danger.

We spoke for more than three hours at this first encounter.
His views about the white man were devastating, but at no time
did he transgress against my own personality and make me feel
that I, as an individual, shared in the guilt. He attributed the
degradation of the Negro people to the white man. He de-
nounced integration as a fraud. He contended that if the leaders of
the established civil rights organizations persisted, the social
struggle would end in bloodshed because he was certain the
white man would never concede full integration. He argued
the Muslim case for separation as the only solution in which the
Negro could achieve his own identity, develop his own culture,
and lay the foundations for a self-respecting productive com-
munity. He was vague about where the Negro state could be
established.

Malcolm refused to see the impossibility of the white man
conceding secession from the United States; at this stage in his
career he contended it was the only solution. He defended Islam
as a religion that did not recognize color bars. He denounced
Christianity as a religion designed for slaves and the Negro clergy
as the curse of the black man, exploiting him for their own
purposes instead of seeking to liberate him, and acting as hand-
maidens of the white community in its determination to keep the
Negroes in a subservient position.

During this first encounter Malcolm also sought to enlighten
me about the Negro mentality. He repeatedly cautioned me to
beware of Negro affirmations of good will toward the white
man. He said that the Negro had been trained to dissemble and
conceal his real thoughts, as a matter of survival. He argued that
the Negro only tells the white man what he believes the white
man wishes to hear, and that the art of dissembling reached a
point where even Negroes cannot truthfully say they understand
what their fellow Negroes believe. The art of deception prac-
ticed by the Negro was based on a thorough understanding of
the white man’s mores, he said; at the same time the Negro has
remained a closed book to the white man, who has never dis-
played any interest in understanding the Negro.

XXV1ll_ THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Malcolm’s exposition of his social ideas was clear and
thoughtful, if somewhat shocking to the white initiate, but most
disconcerting in our talk was Malcolm’s belief in Elijah Muham-
mad’s history of the origins of man, and in a genetic theory
devised to prove the superiority of black over white—a theory
stunning to me in its sheer absurdity.

After this first encounter, I realized that there were two
Malcolms—the private and the public person. His public perfor-
mances on television and at meeting halls produced an almost
terrifying effect. His implacable marshaling of facts and his logic
had something of a new dialectic, diabolic in its force. He fright-
ened white television audiences, demolished his Negro oppo-
nents, but elicited a remarkable response from Negro audiences.
Many Negro opponents in the end refused to make any public
appearances on the same platform with him. The troubled white
audiences were confused, disturbed, felt themselves threatened.
Some began to consider Malcolm evil incarnate.

Malcolm appealed to the two most disparate elements 1n the
Negro community—the depressed mass, and the galaxy of
Negro writers and artists who have burst on the American
scene in the past decade. The Negro middle class—the Negro
“establishment’—abhorred and feared Malcolm as much as he
despised it.

The impoverished Negroes respected Malcolm in the way that
wayward children respect the grandfather image. It was always
a strange and moving experience to walk with Malcolm in Har-
lem. He was known to all. People glanced at him shyly. Some-
times Negro youngsters would ask for his autograph. It always
seemed to me that their affection for Malcolm was inspired by
the fact that although he had become a national figure, he was
still a man of the people who, they felt, would never betray
them. The Negroes have suffered too long from betrayals and
in Malcolm they sensed a man of mission. They knew his
origins, with which they could identify. They knew his criminal
and prison record, which he had never concealed. They looked
upon Malcclm with a certain wonderment. Here was a man who
had come from the lower depths which they still inhabited, who
had tnumphed over his own criminality and his own ignorance
to become a forceful leader and spokesman, an uncompromising
champion of his people.

INTRODUCTION XX1X

Although many could not share his Muslim religious beliefs,
they found in Malcolm’s puritanism a standing reproach to their
own lives. Malcolm had purged himself of all the ills that afflict
the depressed Negro mass: drugs, alcohol, tobacco, not to speak
of criminal pursuits. His personal life was impeccable—of a
puritanism unattainable for the mass. Human redemption—
Malcolm had achieved it in his own lifetime, and this was known
to the Negro community.

In his television appearances and at public meetings Malcolm
articulated the woes and the aspirations of the depressed Negro
mass in a way it was unable to do for itself. When he attacked
the white man, Malcolm did for the Negroes what they couldn’t
do for themselves—he attacked with a violence and anger that
spoke for the ages of misery. It was not an academic exercise
of just giving hell to “Mr. Charlie.”

Many of the Negro writers and artists who are national figures
today revered Malcolm for what they considered his ruthless
honesty in stating the Negro case, his refusal to compromise,
and his search for a group identity that had been destroyed by
the white man when he brought the Negroes in chains from
Africa. The Negro writers and artists regarded Malcolm as the
great catalyst, the man who inspired self-respect and devotion
in the downtrodden millions.

A group of these artists gathered one Sunday in my home,
and we talked about Malcolm. Their devotion to him as a man
was moving. One said: “Malcolm will never betray us. We have
suffered too much from betrayals in the past.”

Malcolm’s attitude toward the white man underwent a marked
change in 1964—a change that contributed to his break with
Elijah Muhammad and his racist doctrines. Malcolm’s meteoric
eruption on the national scene brought him into wider contact
with white men who were not the “devils” he had thought they
were. He was much in demand as a speaker at student forums
in Eastern universities and had appeared at many by the end of
his short career as a national figure. He always spoke respect-
fully and with a certain surprise of the positive response of white
students to his lectures.

A second factor that contributed to his conversion to wider
horizons was a growing doubt about the authenticity of Elijah
Muhammad’s version of the Muslim religion—a doubt that grew

XXX THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

into a certainty with more knowledge and more experience. Cer-
tain secular practices at the Chicago headquarters of Elijah
Muhammad had come to Malcolm’s notice and he was pro-
foundly shocked.

Finally, he embarked on a number of prolonged trips to Mecca
and the newly independent African states through the good of-
fices of the representatives of the Arab League in the United
States. It was on his first trip to Mecca that he came to the
conclusion that he had yet to discover Islam.

Assassins’ bullets ended Malcolm’s career before he was able
to develop this new approach, which in essence recognized the
Negroes as an integral] part of the American community—a far
cry from Elijah Muhammad’s doctrine of separation. Malcolm
had reached the midpoint in redefining his attitude to this coun-
try and the white-black relationship. He no longer inveighed
against the United States but against a segment of the United
States represented by overt white supremacists in the South and
covert white supremacists in the North.

It was Malcolm’s intention to raise Negro militancy to a new
high point with the main thrust aimed at both the Southern and
Northern white supremacists. The Negro problem, which he had
always said should be renamed “the white man’s problem,”
was beginning to assume new dimensions for him in the last
months of his life.

To the very end, Malcolm sought to refashion the broken
strands between the American Negroes and African culture. He
saw in this the road to a new sense of group identity, a self-
conscious role in history, and above all a sense of man’s own
worth which he claimed the white man had destroyed in the
Negro.

American autobiographical literature is filled with numerous
accounts of remarkable men who pulled themselves to the sum-
mit by their bootstraps. Few are as poignant as Malcolm’s mem-
oirs. As testimony to the power of redemption and the force
of human personality, the autobiography of Malcolm X is a
revelation.

New York, June 1965

CHAPTER ONE
NIGHTMARE

When my mother was pregnant with me, she told me later, a
party of hooded Ku Klux Klan riders galloped up to our home
in Omaha, Nebraska, one night. Surrounding the house, bran-
dishing their shotguns and rifles, they shouted for my father to
come out. My mother went to the front door and opened it.
Standing where they could see her pregnant condition, she told
them that she was alone with her three small children, and that
my father was away, preaching, in Milwaukee. The Klansmen
shouted threats and warnings at her that we had better get out of
town because ‘‘the good Christian white people’’ were not going
to stand for my father’s ‘‘spreading trouble’’ among the ‘‘good’’
Negroes of Omaha with the “‘back to Africa’’ preachings of
Marcus Garvey.

My father, the Reverend Earl Little, was a Baptist minister,
a dedicated organizer for Marcus Aurelius Garvey’s U.N.1.A.
(Universal Negro Improvement Association). With the help of
such disciples as my father, Garvey, from his headquarters in
New York City’s Harlem, was raising the banner of black-race
purity and exhorting the Negro masses to return to their ancestral
African homeland—a cause which had made Garvey the most
controversial black man on earth.

Still shouting threats, the Klansmen finally spurred their horses
and galloped around the house, shattering every window pane
with their gun butts. Then they rode off into the night, their
torches flaring, as suddenly as they had come.

My father was enraged when he returned. He decided to wait
until I was born—which would be soon—and then the family

]

2 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

would move. I am not sure why he made this decision, for he
was not a frightened Negro, as most then were, and many still
are today. My father was a big, six-foot-four, very black man.
He had only one eye. How he had lost the other one I have never
known. He was from Reynolds, Georgia, where he had left
school after the third or maybe fourth grade. He believed, as did
Marcus Garvey, that freedom, independence and self-respect
could never be achieved by the Negro in America, and that
therefore the Negro should leave America to the white man and
return to his African land of origin. Among the reasons my
father had decided to risk and dedicate his life to help dissemi-
nate this philosophy among his people was that he had seen four
of his six brothers die by violence, three of them killed by white
men, including one by lynching. What my father could not know
then was that of the remaining three, including himself, only
one, my Uncle Jim, would die in bed, of natural causes. North-
em white police were later to shoot my Uncle Oscar. And my
father was finally himself to die by the white man’s hands.

It has always been my belief that I, too, will die by violence.
I have done all that I can to be prepared.

I was my father’s seventh child. He had three children by a
previous marriage—Ella, Earl, and Mary, who lived in Boston.
He had met and married my mother in Philadelphia, where their
first child, my oldest full brother, Wilfred, was born. They
moved from Philadelphia to Omaha, where Hilda and then Phil-
bert were born.

I was next in line. My mother was twenty-eight when I was
born on May 19, 1925, in an Omaha hospital. Then we moved
to Milwaukee, where Reginald was bor. From infancy, he had
some kind of hernia condition which was to handicap him phys-
ically for the rest of his life.

Louise Little, my mother, who was bom in Grenada, in the
British West Indies, looked like a white woman. Her father was
white. She had straight black hair, and her accent did not sound
like a Negro’s. Of this white father of hers, I know nothing
except her shame about it. I remember hearing her say she was
glad that she had never seen him. It was, of course, because of
him that I got my reddish-brown ‘‘mariny’’ color of skin, and
my hair of the same color. I was the lightest child in our family.
(Out in the world later on, in Boston and New York, I was

NIGHTMARE 3

among the millions of Negroes who were insane enough to feel
that it was some kind of status symbol to be light-
complexioned—that one was actually fortunate to be bom thus.
But, still later, I learned to hate every drop of that white rapist’s
blood that is in me.)

Our family stayed only briefly in Milwaukee, for my father
wanted to find a place where he could raise our own food and
perhaps build a business. The teaching of Marcus Garvey
stressed becoming independent of the white man. We went next,
for some reason, to Lansing, Michigan. My father bought a
house and soon, as had been his pattern, he was doing free-lance
Christian preaching in local Negro Baptist churches, and during
the week he was roaming about spreading word of Marcus Gar-
vey.

He had begun to lay away savings for the store he had always
wanted to own when, as always, some stupid local Uncle Tom
Negroes began to funnel stories about his revolutionary beliefs
to the local white people. This time, the get-out-of-town threats
came from a local hate society called The Black Legion. They
wore black robes instead of white. Soon, nearly everywhere my
father went, Black Legionnaires were reviling him as an ‘‘uppity
nigger’ for wanting to own a store, for living outside the Lan-
sing Negro district, for spreading unrest and dissention among
**the good niggers.’’

As in Omaha, my mother was pregnant again, this time with
my youngest sister. Shortly after Yvonne was born came the
nightmare night in 1929, my earliest vivid memory. I remember
being suddenly snatched awake into a frightening confusion of
pistol shots and shouting and smoke and flames. My father had
shouted and shot at the two white men who had set the fire and
were running away. Our home was burning down around us.
We were lunging and bumping and tumbling all over each other
trying to escape. My mother, with the baby in her arms, just
made it into the yard before the house crashed in, showering
sparks. I remember we were outside in the night in our under-
wear, crying and yelling our heads off. The white police and
firemen came and stood around watching as the house burned
down to the ground.

My father prevailed on some friends to clothe and house us
temporarily; then he moved us into another house on the out-

4 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

skirts of East Lansing. In those days Negroes weren’t allowed
after dark in East Lansing proper. There’s where Michigan State
University is located; I related all of this to an audience of stu-
dents when I spoke there in January, 1963 (and had the first
reunion in a long while with my younger brother, Robert, who
was there doing postgraduate studies in psychology). I told them
how East Lansing harassed us so much that we had to move
again, this time two miles out of town, into the country. This
was where my father built for us with his own hands a four-
room house. This is where I really begin to remember things—
this home where I started to grow up.

After the fire, I remember that my father was called in and
questioned about a permit for the pistol with which he had shot
at the white men who set the fire. I remember that the police
were always dropping by our house, shoving things around,
‘‘just checking’’ or ‘‘looking for a gun.’’ The pistol they were
looking for—which they never found, and for which they
wouldn’t issue a permit—was sewed up inside a pillow. My
father’s .22 rifle and his shotgun, though, were right out in the
open; everyone had them for hunting birds and rabbits and other
game.

After that, my memories are of the friction between my father
and mother. They seemed to be nearly always at odds. Some-
times my father would beat her. It might have had something to
do with the fact that my mother had a pretty good education.
Where she got it I don’t know. But an educated woman, I sup-
pose, can’t resist the temptation to correct an uneducated man.
Every now and then, when she put those smooth words on him,
he would grab her.

My father was also belligerent toward all of the children,
except me. The older ones he would beat almost savagely if they
broke any of his rules—and he had so many rules it was hard to
know them all. Nearly all my whippings came from my mother.
I’ve thought a lot about why. I actually believe that as anti-white
as my father was, he was subconsciously so afflicted with the
white man’s brainwashing of Negroes that he inclined to favor
the light ones, and I was his lightest child. Most Negro parents
in those days would almost instinctively treat any lighter chil-
dren better than they did the darker ones. It came directly from

NIGHTMARE 5

the slavery tradition that the ‘‘mulatto,’’ because he was visibly
nearer to white, was therefore ‘‘better.’’

My two other images of my father are both outside the home.
One was his role as a Baptist preacher. He never pastored in any
regular church of his own; he was always a ‘ ‘visiting preacher.”’
I remember especially his favorite sermon: ‘‘That little black
train is a-comin’ . . . an’ you better get all your business right!”’
I guess this also fit his association with the back-to-Africa move-
ment, with Marcus Garvey’s ‘‘Black Train Homeward.’’ My
brother Philbert, the one just older than me, loved church, but
it confused and amazed me. I would sit goggle-eyed at my father
jumping and shouting as he preached, with the congregation
jumping and shouting behind him, their souls and bodies de-
voted to singing and praying. Even at that young age, I just
couldn’t believe in the Christian concept of Jesus as someone
divine. And no religious person, until I was a man in my twen-
ties—and then in prison—could tell me anything. I had very little
respect for most people who represented religion.

It was in his role as a preacher that my father had most contact
with the Negroes of Lansing. Believe me when I tell you that
those Negroes were in bad shape then. They are still in bad
shape—though in a different way. By that I mean that I don’t
know a town with a higher percentage of complacent and mis-
guided so-called ‘‘middle-class’’ Negroes—the typical status-
symbol-oriented, integration-seeking type of Negroes. Just
recently, I was standing in a lobby at the United Nations talking
with an African ambassador and his wife, when a Negro came
up to me and said, ‘“‘You know me?’’ I was a little embarrassed
because I thought he was someone I should remember. It turned
out that he was one of those bragging, self-satisfied, ‘‘middle-
class’’ Lansing Negroes. I wasn’t ingratiated. He was the type
who would never have been associated with Africa, until the fad
of having African friends became a status-symbol for ‘‘middle-
class’’ Negroes.

Back when I was growing up, the ‘‘successful’’ Lansing Ne-
groes were such as waiters and bootblacks. To be a janitor at
some downtown store was to be highly respected. The real
‘‘elite,’’ the “‘big shots,’’ the “‘voices of the race,’ were the
waiters at the Lansing Country Club and the shoeshine boys at
the state capitol. The only Negroes who really had any money

6 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

were the ones in the numbers racket, or who ran the gambling
houses, or who in some other way lived parasitically off the
poorest ones, who were the masses. No Negroes were hired then
by Lansing’s big Oldsmobile plant, or the Reo plant. (Do you
remember the Reo? It was manufactured in Lansing, and R. E.
Olds, the man after whom it was named, also lived in Lansing.
When the war came along, they hired some Negro janitors.) The
bulk of the Negroes were either on Welfare, or W.P.A., or they
starved.

The day was to come when our family was so poor that we
would eat the hole out of a doughnut; but at that time we were
much better off than most town Negroes. The reason was that
we raised much of our own food out there in the country where
we were. We were much better off than the town Negroes who
would shout, as my father preached, for the pie-in-the-sky and
their heaven in the hereafter while the white man had his here
on earth.

I knew that the collections my father got for his preaching
were mainly what fed and clothed us, and he also did other odd
jobs, but still the image of him that made me proudest was his
crusading and militant campaigning with the words of Marcus
Garvey. As young as I was then, I knew from what I overheard
that my father was saying something that made him a ‘‘tough’’
man. I remember an old lady, grinning and saying to my father,
‘“You’re scaring these white folks to death!’’

One of the reasons I’ve always felt that my father favored me
was that to the best of my remembrance, it was only me that he
sometimes took with him to the Garvey U.N.I.A. meetings
which he held quietly in different people’s homes. There were
never more than a few people at any one time—twenty at most.
But that was a lot, packed into someone’s living room. I noticed
how differently they all acted, although sometimes they were
the same people who jumped and shouted in church. But in these
meetings both they and my father were more intense, more in-
telligent and down to earth. It made me feel the same way.

I can remember hearing of ‘‘Adam driven out of the garden
into the caves of Europe,’’ ‘‘Africa for the Africans,’’ ‘‘Ethio-
pians, Awake!’’ And my father would talk about how it would
not be much longer before Africa would be completely run by
Negroes—‘‘by black men,’’ was the phrase he always used.

NIGHTMARE 7

‘*No one knows when the hour of Africa’s redemption cometh.
It is in the wind. It is coming. One day, like a storm, it will be
here.”’

I remember seeing the big, shiny photographs of Marcus Gar-
vey that were passed from hand to hand. My father had a big
envelope of them that he always took to these meetings. The
pictures showed what seemed to me millions of Negroes
thronged in parade behind Garvey nding in a fine car, a big
black man dressed in a dazzling uniform with gold braid on it,
and he was wearing a thrilling hat with tall plumes. I remember
hearing that he had black followers not only in the United States
but all around the world, and I remember how the meetings
always closed with my father saying, several times, and the
people chanting after him, ‘‘Up, you mighty race, you can ac-
complish what you will!”’

I have never understood why, after hearing as much as I did
of these kinds of things, I somehow never thought, then, of the
black people in Africa. My image of Africa, at that time, was
of naked savages, cannibals, monkeys and tigers and steaming
jungles.

My father would drive in his old black touring car, sometimes
taking me, to meeting places all around the Lansing area. I
remember one daytime meeting (most were at night) in the town
of Owosso, forty miles from Lansing, which the Negroes called
**White City.’’ (Owosso’s greatest claim to fame is that it is the
home town of Thomas E. Dewey.) As in East Lansing, no Ne-
groes were allowed on the streets there after dark—hence the
daytime meeting. In point of fact, in those days lots of Michigan
towns were like that. Every town had a few “‘home’’ Negroes
who lived there. Sometimes it would be just one family, as in
the nearby county seat, Mason, which had a single Negro family
named Lyons. Mr. Lyons had been a famous football star at
Mason High School, was highly thought of in Mason, and con-
sequently he now worked around that town in menial jobs.

My mother at this time seemed to be always working—
cooking, washing, ironing, cleaning, and fussing over us eight
children. And she was usually either arguing with or not speak-
ing to my father. One cause of friction was that she had strong
ideas about what she wouldn’t eat—and didn’t want us to eat—
including pork and rabbit, both of which my father loved dearly.

8 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

He was a real Georgia Negro, and he believed in eating plenty
of what we in Harlem today call ‘‘soul food.”’

I’ve said that my mother was the one who whipped me—at
least she did whenever she wasn’t ashamed to let the neighbors
think she was killing me. For if she even acted as though she
was about to raise her hand to me, I would open my mouth and
let the world know about it. If anybody was passing by out on
the road, she would either change her mind or just give me a
few licks.

Thinking about it now, I feel definitely that just as my father
favored me for being lighter than the other children, my mother
gave me more hell for the same reason. She was very light
herself but she favored the ones who were darker. Wilfred, I
know, was particularly her angel. I remember that she would
tell me to get out of the house and ‘‘Let the sun shine on you so
you can get some color.’’ She went out of her way never to let
me become afflicted with a sense of color-superiority. I am sure
that she treated me this way partly because of how she came to
be light herself.

I learned early that crying out in protest could accomplish
things. My older brothers and sister had started to school when,
sometimes, they would come in and ask for a buttered biscuit
or something and my mother, impatiently, would tell them no.
But I would cry out and make a fuss until I got what I wanted.
I remember well how my mother asked me why I couldn’t be a
nice boy like Wilfred; but I would think to myself that Wilfred,
for being so nice and quiet, often stayed hungry. So early in
life, I had learned that if you want something, you had better
make some noise.

Not only did we have our big garden, but we raised chickens.
My father would buy some baby chicks and my mother would
raise them. We all loved chicken. That was one dish there was
no argument with my father about. One thing in particular that
I remember made me feel grateful toward my mother was that
one day I went and asked her for my own garden, and she did
let me have my own little plot. I loved it and took care of it
well. I loved especially to grow peas. I was proud when we had
them on our table. I would pull out the grass in my garden by
hand when the first little blades came up. I would patrol the
rows on my hands and knees for any worms and bugs, and I

NIGHTMARE 9

would kill and bury them. And sometimes when I had every-
thing straight and clean for my things to grow, I would lie down
on my back between two rows, and I would gaze up in the blue
sky at the clouds moving and think all kinds of things.

At five, I, too, began to go to school, leaving home in the
moming along with Wilfred, Hilda, and Philbert. It was the
Pleasant Grove School that went from kindergarten through
the eighth grade. It was two miles outside the city limits, and I
guess there was no problem about our attending because we
were the only Negroes in the area. In those days white people
in the North usually would ‘‘adopt’’ just a few Negroes; they
didn’t see them as any threat. The white kids didn’t make any
great thing about us, either. They called us ‘‘nigger’’ and ‘‘dar-
kie’’ and ‘‘Rastus’’ so much that we thought those were our
natural names. But they didn’t think of it as an insult; it was just
the way they thought about us.

One afternoon in 1931 when Wilfred, Hilda, Philbert, and I
came home, my mother and father were having one of their
arguments. There had lately been a lot of tension around the
house because of Black Legion threats. Anyway, my father had
taken one of the rabbits which we were raising, and ordered my
mother to cook it. We raised rabbits, but sold them to whites.
My father had taken a rabbit from the rabbit pen. He had pulled
off the rabbit’s head. He was so strong, he needed no knife to
behead chickens or rabbits. With one twist of his big black hands
he simply twisted off the head and threw the bleeding-necked
thing back at my mother’s feet.

My mother was crying. She started to skin the rabbit, prepa-
ratory to cooking it. But my father was so angry he slammed on
out of the front door and started walking up the road toward
town.

It was then that my mother had this vision. She had always
been a strange woman in this sense, and had always had a strong
intuition of things about to happen. And most of her children
are the same way, I think. When something is about to happen,
I can feel something, sense something. I never have known
something to happen that has caught me completely off guard—
except once. And that was when, years later, I discovered facts

10 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I couldn’t believe about a man who, up until that discovery, I
would gladly have given my life for.

My father was well up the road when my mother ran scream-
ing out onto the porch. ‘‘Early! Early!’’ She screamed his name.
She clutched up her apron in one hand, and ran down across the
yard and into the road. My father turned around. He saw her.
For some reason, considering how angry he had been when he
left, he waved at her. But he kept on going.

She told me later, my mother did, that she had a vision of my
father’s end. All the rest of the afternoon, she was not herself,
crying and nervous and upset. She finished cooking the rabbit
and put the whole thing in the warmer part of the black stove.
When my father was not back home by our bedtime, my mother
hugged and clutched us, and we felt strange, not knowing what
to do, because she had never acted like that.

I remember waking up to the sound of my mother’s screaming
again. When I scrambled out, I saw the police in the living
room; they were trying to calm her down. She had snatched on
her clothes to go with them. And all of us children who were
staring knew without anyone having to say it that something
terrible had happened to our father.

My mother was taken by the police to the hospital, and to a
room where a sheet was over my father in a bed, and she
wouldn’t look, she was afraid to look. Probably it was wise that
she didn’t. My father’s skull, on one side, was crushed in, I was
told later. Negroes in Lansing have always whispered that he
was attacked, and then laid across some tracks for a streetcar to
run over him. His body was cut almost in half.

He lived two and a half hours in that condition. Negroes then
were stronger than they are now, especially Georgia Negroes.
Negroes born in Georgia had to be strong simply to survive.

It was moming when we children at home got the word that
he was dead. I was six. I can remember a vague commotion,
the house filled up with people crying, saying bitterly that the
white Black Legion had finally gotten him. My mother was
hysterical. In the bedroom, women were holding smelling salts
under her nose. She was still hysterical at the funeral.

I don’t have a very clear memory of the funeral, either. Oddly,
the main thing I remember is that it wasn’t in a church, and that
surprised me, since my father was a preacher, and I had been

NIGHTMARE 11

where he preached people’s funerals in churches. But his was
in a funeral home.

And I remember that during the service a big black fly came
down and landed on my father’s face, and Wilfred sprang up
from his chair and he shooed the fly away, and he came groping
back to his chair—there were folding chairs for us to sit on—
and the tears were streaming down his face. When we went by
the casket, I remember that I thought that it looked as if my
father’s strong black face had been dusted with flour, and I
wished they hadn’t put on such a lot of it.

Back in the big four-room house, there were many visitors for
another week or so. They were good friends of the family, such
as the Lyons from Mason, twelve miles away, and the Walkers,
McGuires, Liscoes, the Greens, Randolphs, and the Turners,
and others from Lansing, and a lot of people from other
towns, whom I had seen at the Garvey meetings.

We children adjusted more easily than our mother did. We
couldn’t see, as clearly as she did, the trials that lay ahead. As
the visitors tapered off, she became very concerned about col-
lecting the two insurance policies that my father had always been
proud he carried. He had always said that families should be
protected in case of death. One policy apparently paid off with-
out any problem—the smaller one. I don’t know the amount of
it. I would imagine it was not more than a thousand dollars, and
maybe half of that.

But after that money came, and my mother had paid out a lot
of it for the funeral and expenses, she began going into town
and returning very upset. The company that had issued the big-
ger policy was balking at paying off. They were claiming that
my father had committed suicide. Visitors came again, and there
was bitter talk about white people: how could my father bash
himself in the head, then get down across the streetcar tracks to
be run over? :

So there we were. My mother was thirty-four years old now,
with no husband, no provider or protector to take care of her
eight children. But some kind of a family routine got going
again. And for as long as the first insurance money lasted, we
did all right.

Wilfred, who was a pretty stable fellow, began to act older
than his age. I think he had the sense to see, when the rest of us

12 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

didn’t, what was in the wind for us. He quietly quit school and
went to town in search of work. He took any kind of job he
could find and he would come home, dog-tired, in the evenings,
and give whatever he had made to my mother.

Hilda, who always had been quiet, too, attended to the babies.
Philbert and I didn’t contribute anything. We just fought all the
time—each other at home, and then at school we would team up
and fight white kids. Sometimes the fights would be racial in
nature, but they might be about anything.

Reginald came under my wing. Since he had grown out of
the toddling stage, he and I had become very close. I suppose I
enjoyed the fact that he was the little one, under me, who looked
up to me.

My mother began to buy on credit. My father had always
been very strongly against credit. ““Credit is the first step into
debt and back into slavery,’’ he had always said. And then she
went to work herself. She would go into Lansing and find dif-
ferent jobs—in housework, or sewing—for white people. They
didn’t realize, usually, that she was a Negro. A lot of white
people around there didn’t want Negroes in their houses.

She would do fine until in some way or other it got to people
who she was, whose widow she was. And then she would be
let go. I remember how she used to come home crying, but
trying to hide it, because she had lost a job that she needed so
much.

Once when one of us—I cannot remember which—had to go
for something to where she was working, and the people saw
us, and realized she was actually a Negro, she was fired on the
spot, and she came home crying, this time not hiding it.

When the state Welfare people began coming to our house,
we would come from school sometimes and find them talking
with our mother, asking a thousand questions. They acted and
looked at her, and at us, and around in our house, in a way that
had about it the feeling—at least for me—that we were not peo-
ple. In their eyesight we were just things, that was all.

My mother began to receive two checks—a Welfare check
and, I believe, widow’s pension. The checks helped. But they
weren't enough, as many of us as there were. When they came,
about the first of the month, one always was already owed in

NIGHTMARE 13

full, if not more, to the man at the grocery store. And, after
that, the other one didn’t last long.

We began to go swiftly downhill. The physical downhill
wasn’t as quick as the psychological. My mother was, above
everything else, a proud woman, and it took its toll on her that
she was accepting charity. And her feelings were communicated
to us.

She would speak sharply to the man at the grocery store for
padding the bill, telling him that she wasn’t ignorant, and he
didn’t like that. She would talk back sharply to the state Welfare
people, telling them that she was a grown woman, able to raise
her children, that it wasn’t necessary for them to keep coming
around so much, meddling in our lives. And they didn’t like
that.

But the monthly Welfare check was their pass. They acted as
if they owned us, as if we were their private property. As much
as my mother would have liked to, she couldn’t keep them out.
She would get particularly incensed when they began insisting
upon drawing us older children aside, one at a time, out on the
porch or somewhere, and asking us questions, or telling us
things—against our mother and against each other.

We couldn’t understand why, if the state was willing to give
us packages of meat, sacks of potatoes and fruit, and cans of all
kinds of things, our mother obviously hated to accept. We really
couldn’t understand. What I later understood was that my mother
was making a desperate effort to preserve her pride—and ours.

Pride was just about all we had to preserve, for by 1934, we
really began to suffer. This was about the worst depression year,
and no one we knew had enough to eat or live on. Some old
family friends visited us now and then. At first they brought
food. Though it was charity, my mother took it.

Wilfred was working to help. My mother was working, when
she could find any kind of job. In Lansing, there was a bakery
where, for a nickel, a couple of us children would buy a tall
flour sack of day-old bread and cookies, and then walk the two
miles back out into the country to our house. Our mother knew,
I guess, dozens of ways to cook things with bread and out of
bread. Stewed tomatoes with bread, maybe that would be a meal.
Something like French toast, if we had any eggs. Bread pud-
ding, sometimes with raisins in it. If we got hold of some ham-

14. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

burger, it came to the table more bread than meat. The cookies
that were always in the sack with the bread, we just gobbled
down straight.

But there were times when there wasn’t even a nickel and we
would be so hungry we were dizzy. My mother would boil a
big pot of dandelion greens, and we would eat that. I remember
that some small-minded neighbor put it out, and children would
tease us, that we ate ‘‘fried grass.’’ Sometimes, if we were
lucky, we would have oatmeal or cornmeal mush three times a
day. Or mush in the morning and cormbread at night.

Philbert and I were grown up enough to quit fighting long
enough to take the .22 caliber rifle that had been our father’s,
and shoot rabbits that some white neighbors up or down the road
would buy. I know now that they just did it to help us, because
they, like everyone, shot their own rabbits. Sometimes, I re-
member, Philbert and I would take little Reginald along with
us. He wasn’t very strong, but he was always so proud to be
along. We would trap muskrats out in the little creek in back of
our house. And we would lie quiet until unsuspecting bullfrogs
appeared, and we would spear them, cut off their legs, and sell
them for a nickel a pair to people who lived up and down the
road. The whites seemed less restricted in their dietary tastes.

Then, about in late 1934, I would guess, something began to
happen. Some kind of psychological deterioration hit our family
circle and began to eat away our pride. Perhaps it was the con-
stant tangible evidence that we were destitute. We had known
other families who had gone on relief. We had known without
anyone in our home ever expressing it that we had felt prouder
not to be at the depot where the free food was passed out. And,
now, we were among them. At school, the ‘‘on relief’’ finger
suddenly was pointed at us, too, and sometimes it was said
aloud.

It seemed that everything to eat in our house was stamped Not
To Be Sold. All Welfare food bore this stamp to keep the recip-
ients from selling it. It’s a wonder we didn’t come to think of
Not To Be Sold as a brand name.

Sometimes, instead of going home from school, I walked the
two miles up the road into Lansing. I began drifting from store
to store, hanging around outside where things like apples were
displayed in boxes and barrels and baskets, and I would watch

NIGHTMARE 15

my chance and steal me a treat. You know what a treat was to
me? Anything!

Or I began to drop in about dinnertime at the home of some
family that we knew. I knew that they knew exactly why I was
there, but they never embarrassed me by letting on. They would
invite me to stay for supper, and I would stuff myself.

Especially, I liked to drop in and visit at the Gohannases’
home. They were nice, older people, and great churchgoers. I
had watched them lead the jumping and shouting when my fa-
ther preached. They had, living with them—they were raising
him—a nephew whom everyone called ‘‘Big Boy,’’ and he and
I got along fine. Also living with the Gohannases was old Mrs.
Adcock, who went with them to church. She was always trying
to help anybody she could, visiting anyone she heard was sick,
carrying them something. She was the one who, years later,
would tell me something that I remembered a long time: ‘‘Mal-
colm, there’s one thing I like about you. You’re no good, but
you don’t try to hide it. You are not a hypocrite.”’

The more I began to stay away from home and visit people
and steal from the stores, the more aggressive I became in my
inclinations. I never wanted to wait for anything.

I was growing up fast, physically more so than mentally. As
I began to be recognized more around the town, I started to
become aware of the peculiar attitude of white people toward
me. I sensed that it had to do with my father. It was an adult
version of what several white children had said at school, in
hints, or sometimes in the open, which really expressed what
their parents had said—that the Black Legion or the Klan had
killed my father, and the insurance company had pulled a fast
one in refusing to pay my mother the policy money.

When I began to get caught stealing now and then, the state
Welfare people began to focus on me when they came to our
house. I can’t remember how I first became aware that they were
talking of taking me away. What I first remember along that line
was my mother raising a storm about being able to bring up her
own children. She would whip me for stealing, and I would try
to alarm the neighborhood with my yelling. One thing I have
always been proud of is that I never raised my hand against my
mother.

In the summertime, at night, in addition to all the other things

16 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

we did, some of us boys would slip out down the road, or across
the pastures, and go ‘‘cooning’’ watermelons. White people al-
ways associated watermelons with Negroes, and they sometimes
called Negroes “‘coons’’ among all the other names, and so
stealing watermelons became ‘‘cooning’’ them. If white boys
were doing it, it implied that they were only acting like Negroes.
Whites have always hidden or justified all of the guilts they
could by ridiculing or blaming Negroes.

One Halloween night, I remember that a bunch of us were
out tipping over those old country outhouses, and one old
farmer—I guess he had tipped over enough in his day—had set
a trap for us. Always, you sneak up from behind the outhouse,
then you gang together and push it, to tip it over. This farmer
had taken his outhouse off the hole, and set it just in front of the
hole. Well, we came sneaking up in single file, in the darkness,
and the two white boys in the lead fell down into the outhouse
hole neck deep. They smelled so bad it was all we could stand
to get them out, and that finished us all for that Halloween. I
had just missed falling in myself. The whites were so used to
taking the lead, this time it had really gotten them in the hole.

Thus, in various ways, I learned various things. I picked
strawberries, and though I can’t recall what I got per crate for
picking, I remember that after working hard all one day, I wound
up with about a dollar, which was a whole lot of money in those
times. I was so hungry, I didn’t know what to do. I was walking
away toward town with visions of buying something good to
eat, and this older white boy I knew, Richard Dixon, came up
and asked me if I wanted to match nickels. He had plenty of
change for my dollar. In about a half hour, he had all the change
back, including my dollar, and instead of going to town to buy
something, I went home with nothing, and I was bitter. But that
was nothing compared to what I felt when I found out later that
he had cheated. There is a way that you can catch and hold the
nickel and make it come up the way you want. This was my
first lesson about gambling: if you see somebody winning all
the time, he isn’t gambling, he’s cheating. Later on in life, if I
were continuously losing in any gambling situation, I would
watch very closely. It’s like the Negro in America seeing the
white man win all the time. He’s a professional gambler; he has

NIGHTMARE 17

all the cards and the odds stacked on his side, and he has always
dealt to our people from the bottom of the deck.

About this time, my mother began to be visited by some Sev-
enth Day Adventists who had moved into a house not too far
down the road from us. They would talk to her for hours at a
time, and leave booklets and leaflets and magazines for her to
read. She read them, and Wilfred, who had started back to school
after we had begun to get the relief food supplies, also read a
lot. His head was forever in some book.

Before long, my mother spent much time with the Adventists.
It’s my belief that what mostly influenced her was that they had
even more diet restrictions than she always had taught and prac-
ticed with us. Like us, they were against eating rabbit and pork;
they followed the Mosaic dietary laws. They ate nothing of the
flesh without a split hoof, or that didn’t chew a cud. We began
to go with my mother to the Adventist meetings that were held
further out in the country. For us children, I know that the major
attraction was the good food they served. But we listened, too.
There were a handful of Negroes, from small towns in the area,
but I would say that it was ninety-nine percent white people. The
Adventists felt that we were living at the end of time, that
the world soon was coming to an end. But they were the friend-
liest white people I had ever seen. In some ways, though, we
children noticed, and, when we were back at home, discussed,
that they were different from us—such as the lack of enough
seasoning in their food, and the different way that white people
smelled.

Meanwhile, the state Welfare people kept after my mother.
By now, she didn’t make it any secret that she hated them, and
didn’t want them in her house. But they exerted their nght to
come, and I have many, many times reflected upon how, talking
to us children, they began to plant the seeds of division in our
minds. They would ask such things as who was smarter than the
other. And they would ask me why I was ‘‘so different.’’

I think they felt that getting children into foster homes was a
legitimate part of their function, and the result would be less
troublesome, however they went about it.

And when my mother fought them, they went after her—first,

18 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

through me. I was the first target. I stole; that implied that I
wasn’t being taken care of by my mother.

All of us were mischievous at some time or another, I more
so than any of the rest. Philbert and I kept a battle going. And
this was just one of a dozen things that kept building up the
pressure on my mother.

I’m not sure just how or when the idea was first dropped by
the Welfare workers that our mother was losing her mind.

But I can distinctly remember hearing ‘‘crazy’’ applied to her
by them when they learned that the Negro farmer who was in
the next house down the road from us had offered to give us
some butchered pork—a whole pig, maybe even two of them—
and she had refused. We all heard them call my mother “‘crazy’’
to her face for refusing good meat. It meant nothing to them
even when she explained that we had never eaten pork, that it
was against her religion as a Seventh Day Adventist.

They were as vicious as vultures. They had no feelings, un-
derstanding, compassion, or respect for my mother. They told
us, ‘‘She’s crazy for refusing food.’’ Right then was when our
home, our unity, began to disintegrate. We were having a hard
time, and J wasn’t helping. But we could have made it, we could
have stayed together. As bad as I was, as much trouble and
worry as I caused my mother, I loved her.

The state people, we found out, had interviewed the Gohan-
nas family, and the Gohannases had said that they would take
me into their home. My mother threw a fit, though, when she
heard that—and the home wreckers took cover for a while.

It was about this time that the large, dark man from Lansing
began visiting. I don’t remember how or where he and my mother
met. It may have been through some mutual friends. I don’t
remember what the man’s profession was. In 1935, in Lansing,
Negroes didn’t have anything you could call a profession. But
the man, big and black, looked something like my father. I can
remember his name, but there’s no need to mention it. He was
a single man, and my mother was a widow only thirty-six years
old. The man was independent; naturally she admired that. She
was having a hard time disciplining us, and a big man’s presence
alone would help. And if she had a man to provide, it would
send the state people away forever.

We all understood without ever saying much about it. Or at

NIGHTMARE 19

least we had no objection. We took it in stride, even with some
amusement among us, that when the man came, our mother
would be all dressed up in the best that she had—she still was a
good-looking woman—and she would act differently, light-
hearted and laughing, as we hadn’t seen her act in years.

It went on for about a year, I guess. And then, about 1936,
or 1937, the man from Lansing jilted my mother suddenly. He
just stopped coming to see her. From what I later understood,
he finally backed away from taking on the responsibility of those
eight mouths to feed. He was afraid of so many of us. To this
day, I can see the trap that Mother was in, saddled with all of
us. And I can also understand.why he would shun taking on
such a tremendous responsibility.

But it was a terrible shock to her. It was the beginning of the
end of reality for my mother. When she began to sit around and
walk around talking to herself—almost as though she was un-
aware that we were there—it became increasingly ternfying.

The state people saw her weakening. That was when they
began the definite steps to take me away from home. They began
to tell me how nice it was going to be at the Gohannases’ home,
where the Gohannases and Big Boy and Mrs. Adcock had all
said how much they liked me, and would like to have me live
with them.

I liked all of them, too. But I didn’t want to leave Wilfred. I
looked up to and admired my big brother. I didn’t want to leave
Hilda, who was like my second mother. Or Philbert; even in
our fighting, there was a feeling of brotherly union. Or Regi-
nald, especially, who was weak with his hernia condition, and
who looked up to me as his big brother who looked out for him,
as I looked up to Wilfred. And I had nothing, either, against the
babies, Yvonne, Wesley, and Robert.

As my mother talked to herself more and more, she gradually
became less responsive to us. And less responsible. The house
became less tidy. We began to be more unkempt. And usually,
now, Hilda cooked.

We children watched our anchor giving way. It was some-
thing terrible that you couldn’t get your hands on, yet you
couldn’t get away from. It was a sensing that something bad
was going to happen. We younger ones leaned more and more

20 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

heavily on the relative strength of Wilfred and Hilda, who were
the oldest.

When finally I was sent to the Gohannases’ home, at least in
a surface way I was glad. I remember that when I left home with
the state man, my mother said one thing: ‘‘Don’t let them feed
him any pig.’’

It was better, in a lot of ways, at the Gohannases’. Big Boy
and I shared his room together, and we hit it off nicely. He just
wasn’t the same as my blood brothers. The Gohannases were
very religious people. Big Boy and I attended church with them.
They were sanctified Holy Rollers now. The preachers and con-
gregations jumped even higher and shouted even louder than the
Baptists I had known. They sang at the top of their lungs, and
swayed back and forth and cried and moaned and beat on tam-
bourines and chanted. It was spooky, with ghosts and spirituals
and ‘‘ha’nts’’ seeming to be in the very atmosphere when finally
we all came out of the church, going back home.

The Gohannases and Mrs. Adcock loved to go fishing, and
some Saturdays Big Boy and I would go along. I had changed
schools now, to Lansing’s West Junior High School. It was nght
in the heart of the Negro community, and a few white kids
were there, but Big Boy didn’t mix much with any of our
schoolmates, and I didn’t either. And when we went fishing,
neither he nor I liked the idea of just sitting and waiting for
the fish to jerk the cork under the water—or make the tight
line quiver, when we fished that way. I figured there should
be some smarter way to get the fish—though we never dis-
covered what it might be.

Mr. Gohannas was close cronies with some other men who,
some Saturdays, would take me and Big Boy with them hunting
rabbits. I had my father’s .22 caliber nfle; my mother had said
it was all right for me to take it with me. The old men had a set
rabbit-hunting strategy that they had always used. Usually when
a dog jumps a rabbit, and the rabbit gets away, that rabbit will
always somehow instinctively min in a circle and return sooner
or later past the very spot where he originally was jumped. Well,
the old men would just sit and wait in hiding somewhere for the
rabbit to come back, then get their shots at him. I got to thinking
about it, and finally I thought of a plan. I would separate from

NIGHTMARE 21]

them and Big Boy and I would go to a point where I figured that
the rabbit, returning, would have to pass me first.

It worked like magic. I began to get three and four rabbits
before they got one. The astonishing thing was that none of the
old men ever figured out why. They outdid themselves exclaim-
ing what a sure shot I was. I was about twelve, then. All I had
done was to improve on their strategy, and it was the beginning
of a very important lesson in life—that anytime you find some-
one more successful than you are, especially when you’re both
engaged in the same business—you know they’re doing some-
thing that you aren’t.

I would return home to visit fairly often. Sometimes Big Boy
and one or another, or both, of the Gohannases would go with
me—sometimes not. I would be glad when some of them did
go, because it made the ordeal easier.

Soon the state people were making plans to take over all of
my mother’s children. She talked to herself nearly all of the time
now, and there was a crowd of new white people entering the
picture—always asking questions. They would even visit me at
the Gohannases’. They would ask me questions out on the porch,
or Sitting out in their cars.

Eventually my mother suffered a complete breakdown, and
the court orders were finally signed. They took her to the State
Mental Hospital at Kalamazoo.

It was seventy-some miles from Lansing, about an hour and
a half on the bus. A Judge McClellan in Lansing had authority
over me and all of my brothers and sisters. We were ‘‘state
children,’’ court wards; he had the full say-so over us. A white
man in charge of a black man’s children! Nothing but legal,
modem slavery—however kindly intentioned.

My mother remained in the same hospital at Kalamazoo for
about twenty-six years. Later, when I was still growing up in
Michigan, I would go to visit her every so often. Nothing that I
Can imagine could have moved me as deeply as seeing her pitiful
state. In 1963, we got my mother out of the hospital, and she
now lives there in Lansing with Philbert and his family.

It was so much worse than if it had been a physical sickness,
for which a cause might be known, medicine given, a cure ef-
fected. Every time I visited her, when finally they led her—a

22 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

case, a number—back inside from where we had been sitting
together, I felt worse.

My last visit, when I knew I would never come to see her
again—there—was in 1952. I was twenty-seven. My brother
Philbert had told me that on his last visit, she had recognized
him somewhat. “‘In spots,’’ he said.

But she didn’t recognize me at all.

She stared at me. She didn’t know who I was.

Her mind, when I tried to talk, to reach her, was somewhere
else. I asked, ‘‘Mama, do you know what day it is?’’

She said, staring, ‘‘All the people have gone.”’

I can’t describe how I felt. The woman who had brought me
into the world, and nursed me, and advised me, and chastised
me, and loved me, didn’t know me. It was as if I was trying to
walk up the side of a hill of feathers. I looked at her. I listened
to her ‘‘talk.’’ But there was nothing I could do.

I truly believe that if ever a state social agency destroyed a
family, it destroyed ours. We wanted and tried to stay together.
Our home didn’t have to be destroyed. But the Welfare, the
courts, and their doctor, gave us the one-two-three punch. And
ours was not the only case of this kind.

I knew I wouldn’t be back to see my mother again because it
could make me a very vicious and dangerous person—knowing
how they had looked at us as numbers and as a case in their
book, not as human beings. And knowing that my mother in
there was a statistic that didn’t have to be, that existed because
of a society’s failure, hypocrisy, greed, and lack of mercy and
compassion. Hence I have no mercy or compassion in me for a
society that will crush people, and then penalize them for not
being able to stand up under the weight.

I have rarely talked to anyone about my mother, for I believe
that I am capable of killing a person, without hesitation, who
happened to make the wrong kind of remark about my mother.
So I purposely don’t make any opening for some fool to step
into.

Back then when our family was destroyed, in 1937, Wilfred
and Hilda were old enough so that the state let them stay on
their own in the big four-room house that my father had built.
Philbert was placed with another family in Lansing, a Mrs.
Hackett, while Reginald and Wesley went to live with a family

NIGHTMARE 23

called Williams, who were friends of my mother’s. And Yvonne
and Robert went to live with a West Indian family named
McGuire.

Separated though we were, all of us maintained fairly close
touch around Lansing—in school and out—whenever we could
get together. Despite the artificially created separation and dis-
tance between us, we still remained very close in our feelings
toward each other.

CHAPTER TWO
MASCOT

On June twenty-seventh of that year, nineteen thirty-seven, Joe
Louis knocked out James J. Braddock to become the heavy-
weight champion of the world. And all the Negroes in Lansing,
like Negroes everywhere, went wildly happy with the greatest
celebration of race pride our generation had ever known. Every
Negro boy old enough to walk wanted to be the next Brown
Bomber. My brother Philbert, who had already become a pretty
good boxer in school, was no exception. (I was trying to play
basketball. I was gangling and tall, but I wasn’t very good at
it—too awkward.) In the fall of that year, Philbert entered the
amateur bouts that were held in Lansing’s Prudden Auditorium.

He did well, surviving the increasingly tough eliminations. I
would go down to the gym and watch him train. It was very
exciting. Perhaps without realizing it I became secretly envious;
for one thing, I know I could not help seeing some of my younger
brother Reginald’s lifelong admiration for me getting siphoned
off to Philbert.

People praised Philbert as a natural boxer. I figured that since
we belonged to the same family, maybe I would become one,
too. So I put myself in the ring. I think I was thirteen when I
signed up for my first bout, but my height and rawboned frame
let me get away with claiming that I was sixteen, the minimum
age—and my weight of about 128 pounds got me classified as a
bantamweight.

They matched me with a white boy, a novice like myself,
named Bill Peterson. I’ll never forget him. When our turn in the
next amateur bouts came up, all of my brothers and sisters were

24

MASCOT 25

there watching, along with just about everyone else I knew in
town. They were there not so much because of me but because
of Philbert, who had begun to build up a pretty good following,
and they wanted to see how his brother would do.

I walked down the aisle between the people thronging the
rows of seats, and climbed in the ring. Bill Peterson and I were
introduced, and then the referee called us together and mumbled
all of that stuff about fighting fair and breaking clean. Then the
bell rang and we came out of our corners. I knew I was scared,
but I didn’t know, as Bill Peterson told me later on, that he was
scared of me, too. He was so scared I was going to hurt him
that he knocked me down fifty times if he did once.

He did such a job on my reputation in the Negro neighborhood
that I practically went into hiding. A Negro just can’t be whipped
by somebody white and return with his head up to the neigh-
borhood, especially in those days, when sports and, to a lesser
extent show business, were the only fields open to Negroes, and
when the ring was the only place a Negro could whip a white
man and not be lynched. When I did show my face again, the
Negroes I knew rode me so badly I knew I had to do something.

But the worst of my humiliations was my younger brother
Reginald’s attitude: he simply never mentioned the fight. It was
the way he looked at me—and avoided looking at me. So I went
back to the gym, and I trained—hard. I beat bags and skipped
rope and grunted and sweated all over the place. And finally I
signed up to fight Bill Peterson again. This time, the bouts were
held in his hometown of Alma, Michigan.

The only thing better about the rematch was that hardly any-
one I knew was there to see it; I was particularly grateful for
Reginald’s absence. The moment the bell rang, I saw a fist, then
the canvas coming up, and ten seconds later the referee was
saying ‘“Jen!’’ over me. It was probably the shortest ‘‘fight’’ in
history. I lay there listening to the full count, but I couldn’t
move. To tell the truth, I’m not sure I wanted to move.

That white boy was the beginning and the end of my fight
career. A lot of times in these later years since I became a Mus-
lim, [’ve thought back to that fight and reflected that it was
Allah’s work to stop me: I might have wound up punchy.

Not long after this, I came into a classroom with my hat on.
I did it deliberately. The teacher, who was white, ordered me

26 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

to keep the hat on, and to walk around and around the room
until he told me to stop. ‘‘That way,’’ he said, ‘‘everyone can
see you. Meanwhile, we’ll go on with class for those who are
here to learn something.”’

I was still walking around when he got up from his desk and
tumed to the blackboard to write something on it. Everyone in
the classroom was looking when, at this moment, I passed be-
hind his desk, snatched up a thumbtack and deposited it in his
chair. When he turned to sit back down, I was far from the scene
of the crime, circling around the rear of the room. Then he hit
the tack, and I heard him holler and caught a glimpse of him
spraddling up as I disappeared through the door.

With my deportment record, I wasn’t really shocked when the
decision came that I had been expelled.

I guess I must have had some vague idea that if I didn’t have
to go to school, I’d be allowed to stay on with the Gohannases
and wander around town, or maybe get a job if I wanted one for
pocket money. But I got rocked on my heels when a state man
whom I hadn’t seen before came and got me at the Gohannases’
and took me down to court.

They told me I was going to go to a reform school. I was still
thirteen years old.

But first I was going to the detention home. It was in Mason,
Michigan, about twelve miles from Lansing. The detention home
was where all the ‘‘bad’’ boys and girls from Ingham County
were held, on their way to reform school—waiting for their hear-
ings.

The white state man was a Mr. Maynard Allen. He was nicer
to me than most of the state Welfare people had been. He even
had consoling words for the Gohannases and Mrs. Adcock and
Big Boy; all of them were crying. But I wasn’t. With the few
clothes I owned stuffed into a box, we rode in his car to Mason.
He talked as he drove along, saying that my school marks showed
that if I would just straighten up, I could make something of
myself. He said that reform school had the wrong reputation; he
talked about what the word ‘‘reform’’ meant—to change and
become better. He said the school was really a place where boys
like me could have time to see their mistakes and start a new
life and become somebody everyone would be proud of. And

MASCOT 27

he told me that the lady in charge of the detention home, a Mrs.
Swerlin, and her husband were very good people.

They were good people. Mrs. Swerlin was bigger than her
husband, I remember, a big, buxom, robust, laughing woman,
and Mr. Swerlin was thin, with black hair, and a black mustache
and a red face, quiet and polite, even to me.

They liked me right away, too. Mrs. Swerlin showed me to
my room, my own room—the first in my life. It was in one of
those huge dormitory-like buildings where kids in detention were
kept in those days—and still are in most places. I discovered
next, with surprise, that I was allowed to eat with the Swerlins.
It was the first time I’d eaten with white people—at least with
grown white people—since the Seventh Day Adventist country
meetings. It wasn’t my own exclusive privilege, of course. Ex-
cept for the very troublesome boys and girls at the detention
home, who were kept locked up—those who had run away and
been caught and brought back, or something like that—all of us
ate with the Swerlins sitting at the head of the long tables.

They had a white cook-helper, I recall—Lucille Lathrop. (It
amazes me how these names come back, from a time I haven’t
thought about for more than twenty years.) Lucille treated me
well, too. Her husband’s name was Duane Lathrop. He worked
somewhere else, but he stayed there at the detention home on
the weekends with Lucille.

I noticed again how white people smelled different from us,
and how their food tasted different, not seasoned like Negro
cooking. I began to sweep and mop and dust around in the
Swerlins’ house, as I had done with Big Boy at the Gohannases’.

They all liked my attitude, and it was out of their liking for
me that I soon became accepted by them—as a mascot, I know
now. They would talk about anything and everything with me
Standing right there hearing them, the same way people would
talk freely in front of a pet canary. They would even talk about
me, or about “‘niggers,’’ as though I wasn’t there, as if I wouldn’t
understand what the word meant. A hundred times a day, they
used the word ‘‘nigger.’’ I suppose that in their own minds, they
meant no harm; in fact they probably meant well. It was the
same with the cook, Lucille, and her husband, Duane. I remem-
ber one day when Mr. Swerlin, as nice as he was, came in from
Lansing, where he had been through the Negro section, and said

28 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

to Mrs. Swerlin nght in front of me, ‘‘I just can’t see how those
niggers can be so happy and be so poor.’’ He talked about how
they lived in shacks, but had those big, shining cars out front.

And Mrs. Swerlin said, me standing nght there, ‘‘Niggers are
just that way. . . .’’ That scene always stayed with me.

It was the same with the other white people, most of them
local politicians, when they would come visiting the Swerlins.
One of their favorite parlor topics was “‘niggers.’’ One of them
was the judge who was in charge of me in Lansing. He was a
close friend of the Swerlins. He would ask about me when he
came, and they would call me in, and he would look me up and
down, his expression approving, like he was examining a fine
colt, or a pedigreed pup. I knew they must have told him how I
acted and how I worked.

What I am trying to say is that it just never dawned upon them
that I could understand, that I wasn’t a pet, but a human being.
They didn’t give me credit for having the same sensitivity, in-
tellect, and understanding that they would have been ready and
willing to recognize in a white boy in my position. But it has
historically been the case with white people, in their regard for
black people, that even though we might be with them, we
weren’t considered of them. Even though they appeared to have
opened the door, it was still closed. Thus they never did really
see me.

This is the sort of kindly condescension which I try to clarify
today, to these integration-hungry Negroes, about their ‘‘lib-
eral’’ white friends, these so-called “good white people’’—most
of them anyway. I don’t care how nice one is to you; the thing
you must always remember is that almost never does he really
see you as he sees himself, as he sees his own kind. He may
stand with you through thin, but not thick; when the chips are
down, you’ll find that as fixed in him as his bone structure is his
sometimes subconscious conviction that he’s better than any-
body black.

But I was no more than vaguely aware of anything like that
in my detention-home years. I did my little chores around the
house, and everything was fine. And each weekend, they didn’t
mind my catching a ride over to Lansing for the afternoon or
evening. If I wasn’t old enough, I sure was big enough by then,

MASCOT 29

and nobody ever questioned my hanging out, even at night, in
the streets of the Negro section.

I was growing up to be even bigger than Wilfred and Philbert,
who had begun to meet girls at the school dances, and other
places, and introduced me to a few. But the ones who seemed
to like me, I didn’t go for—and vice versa. I couldn’t dance a
lick, anyway, and I couldn’t see squandering my few dimes on
girls. So mostly I pleasured myself these Saturday nights by
gawking around the Negro bars and restaurants. The jukeboxes
were wailing Erskine Hawkins’ ‘‘Tuxedo Juriction,’’ Slim and
Slam’s ‘‘Flatfoot Floogie,’’ things like that. Sometimes, big
bands from New York, out touring the one-night stands in the
sticks, would play for big dances in Lansing. Everybody with
legs would come out to see any performer who bore the magic
name ‘‘New York.’’ Which is how I first heard Lucky Thomp-
son and Milt Jackson, both of whom I later got to know well in
Harlem.

Many youngsters from the detention home, when their dates
came up, went off to the reform school. But when mine came
up—two or three times—it was always ignored. I saw new
youngsters arrive and leave. I was glad and grateful. I knew it
was Mrs. Swerlin’s doing. I didn’t want to leave.

She finally told me one day that I was going to be entered in
Mason Junior High School. It was the only school in town. No
ward of the detention home had ever gone to school there, at
least while still a ward. So I entered their seventh grade. The
only other Negroes there were some of the Lyons children,
younger than I was, in the lower grades. The Lyonses and I, as
it happened, were the town’s only Negroes. They were, as Ne-
groes, very much respected. Mr. Lyons was a smart, hardwork-
ing man, and Mrs. Lyons was a very good woman. She and my
mother, I had heard my mother say, were two of the four West
Indians in that whole section of Michigan.

Some of the white kids at school, I found, were even friendlier
than some of those in Lansing had been. Though some, includ-
ing the teachers, called me ‘‘nigger,’’ it was easy to see that
they didn’t mean any more harm by it than the Swerlins. As the
‘‘nigger’’ of my class, I was in fact extremely popular—I sup-
pose partly because I was kind of a novelty. I was in demand, I
had top priority. But I also benefited from the special prestige

30 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

of having the seal of approval from that Very Important Woman
about the town of Mason, Mrs. Swerlin. Nobody in Mason
would have dreamed of getting on the wrong side of her. It
became hard for me to get through a school day without some-
one after me to join this or head up that—the debating society,
the Junior High basketball team, or some other extracurricular
activity. I never turned them down.

And I hadn’t been in the school long when Mrs. Swerlin,
knowing I could use spending money of my own, got me a job
after school washing the dishes in a local restaurant. My boss
there was the father of a white classmate whom I spent a lot of
time with. His family lived over the restaurant. It was fine work-
ing there. Every Friday night when I got paid, I’d feel at least
ten feet tall. I forget how much I made, but it seemed like a lot.
It was the first time I’d ever had any money to speak of, all my
own, in my whole life. As soon as I could afford it, I bought a
green suit and some shoes, and at school I’d buy treats for the
others in my class—at least as much as any of them did for me.

English and history were the subjects I liked most. My En-
glish teacher, I recall—a Mr. Ostrowski—was always giving
advice about how to become something in life. The one thing I
didn’t like about history class was that the teacher, Mr. Wil-
liams, was a great one for “‘nigger’’ jokes. One day during my
first week at school, I walked into the room and he started sing-
ing to the class, as a joke, ‘‘ "Way down yonder in the cotton
field, some folks say that a nigger won’t steal.’’ Very funny. I
liked history, but I never thereafter had much liking for Mr.
Wiliams. Later, I remember, we came to the textbook section
on Negro history. It was exactly one paragraph long. Mr. Wil-
liams laughed through it practically in a single breath, reading
aloud how the Negroes had been slaves and then were freed,
and how they were usually lazy and dumb and shiftless. He
added, I remember, an anthropological footnote on his own,
telling us between laughs how Negroes’ feet were ‘‘so big that
when they walk, they don’t leave tracks, they leave a hole in
the ground.’’

I’m sorry to say that the subject I most disliked was mathe-
matics. I have thought about it. I think the reason was that math-
ematics leaves no room for argument. If you made a mistake,
that was all there was to it.

MASCOT 31

Basketball was a big thing in my life, though. I was on the
team; we traveled to neighboring towns such as Howell and
Charlotte, and wherever I showed my face, the audiences in the
gymnasiums ‘‘niggered’’ and ‘‘cooned’’ me to death. Or called
me “‘Rastus.’’ It didn’t bother my teammates or my coach at
all, and to tell the truth, it bothered me only vaguely. Mine was
the same psychology that makes Negroes even today, though it
bothers them down inside, keep letting the white man tell them
how much ‘‘progress’’ they are making. They’ve heard it so
much they’ve almost gotten brainwashed into believing it—or at
least accepting it.

After the basketball games, there would usually be a school
dance. Whenever our team walked into another school’s gym
for the dance, with me among them, I could feel the freeze. It
would start to ease as they saw that I didn’t try to mix, but stuck
close to someone on our team, or kept to myself. I think I de-
veloped ways to do it without making it obvious. Even at our
own school, I could sense it almost as a physical barrier, that
despite all the beaming and smiling, the mascot wasn’t supposed
to dance with any of the white girls.

It was some kind of psychic message—not just from them,
but also from within myself. I am proud to be able to say that
much for myself, at least. I would just stand around and smile
and talk and drink punch and eat sandwiches, and then I would
make some excuse and get away early.

They were typical small-town school dances. Sometimes a
little white band from Lansing would be brought in to play. But
most often, the music was a phonograph set up on a table, with
the volume turned up high, and the records scratchy, blaring
things like Glenn Miller’s ‘“Moonlight Serenade’’—his band was
riding high then—or the Ink Spots, who were also very popular,
singing ‘‘If I Didn’t Care.’’

I used to spend a lot of time thinking about a peculiar thing.
Many of these Mason white boys, like the ones at the Lansing
school—especially if they knew me well, and if we hung out a
lot together—would get me off in a corner somewhere and push
me to proposition certain white girls, sometimes their own sis-
ters. They would tell me that they’d already had the girls them-
selves—including their sisters—or that they were trying to and
couldn’t. Later on, I came to understand what was going on: If

32 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

they could get the girls into the position of having broken the
terrible taboo by slipping off with me somewhere, they would
have that hammer over the girls’ heads, to make them give in
to them.

It seemed that the white boys felt that I, being a Negro, just
naturally knew more about “‘romance,’’ or sex, than they did—
that I instinctively knew more about what to do and say with
their own girls. I never did tell anybody that I really went for
some of the white girls, and some of them went for me, too.
They let me know in many ways. But anytime we found our-
selves in any close conversations or potentially intimate situa-
tions, always there would come up between us some kind of a
wall. The girls I really wanted to have were a couple of Negro
girls whom Wilfred or Philbert had introduced me to in Lansing.
But with these girls, somehow, I lacked the nerve.

From what I heard and saw on the Saturday nights I spent
hanging around in the Negro district I knew that race-mixing
went on in Lansing. But strangely enough, this didn’t have any
kind of effect on me. Every Negro in Lansing, I guess, knew
how white men would drive along certain streets in the black
neighborhoods and pick up Negro streetwalkers who patrolled
the area. And, on the other hand, there was a bridge that sepa-
rated the Negro and Polish neighborhoods, where white women
would drive or walk across and pick up Negro men, who would
hang around in certain places close to the bridge, waiting for
them. Lansing’s white women, even in those days, were famous
for chasing Negro men. I didn’t yet appreciate how most whites
accord to the Negro this reputation for prodigious sexual prow-
ess. There in Lansing, I never heard of any trouble about this
mixing, from either side. I imagine that everyone simply took
it for granted, as I did.

Anyway, from my experience as a little boy at the Lansing
school, I had become fairly adept at avoiding the white-girl is-
sue—at least for a couple of years yet.

Then, in the second semester of the seventh grade, I was
elected class president. It surprised me even more than other
people. But I can see now why the class might have done it. My
grades were among the highest in the school. I was unique in
my class, like a pink poodle. And I was proud; I’m not going
to say I wasn’t. In fact, by then, I didn’t really have much feeling

MASCOT 33

about being a Negro, because I was trying so hard, in every way
I could, to be white. Which is why I am spending much of my
life today telling the American black man that he’s wasting his
time straining to ‘‘integrate.’’ I know from personal experience.
I tried hard enough.

‘*Malcolm, we’re just so proud of you!’’ Mrs. Swerlin ex-
claimed when she heard about my election. It was all over the
restaurant where I worked. Even the state man, Maynard Allen,
who still dropped by to see me once in a while, had a word of
praise. He said he never saw anybody prove better exactly what
‘‘reform’’ meant. I really liked him—except for one thing: he
now and then would drop something that hinted my mother had
let us down somehow.

Fairly often, I would go and visit the Lyonses, and they acted
as happy as though I was one of their children. And it was the
same warm feeling when I went into Lansing to visit my brothers
and sisters, and the Gohannases.

I remember one thing that marred this time for me: the movie
‘‘Gone with the Wind.’’ When it played in Mason, I was the
only Negro in the theater, and when Butterfly McQueen went
into her act, I felt like crawling under the rug.

Every Saturday, just about, I would go into Lansing. I was
going on fourteen, now. Wilfred and Hilda still lived out by
themselves at the old family home. Hilda kept the house very
clean. It was easier than my mother’s plight, with eight of us
always underfoot or running around. Wilfred worked wherever
he could, and he still read every book he could get his hands
on. Philbert was getting a reputation as one of the better amateur
fighters in this part of the state; everyone really expected that he
was going to become a professional.

Reginald and I, after my fighting fiasco, had finally gotten
back on good terms. It made me feel great to visit him and
Wesley over at Mrs. Williams’. I’d offhandedly give them each
a couple of dollars to just stick in their pockets, to have some-
thing to spend. And little Yvonne and Robert were doing okay,
too, over at the home of the West Indian lady, Mrs. McGuire.
I’d give them about a quarter apiece; it made me feel good to
see how they were coming along.

None of us talked much about our mother. And we never
mentioned our father. I guess none of us knew what to say. We

34 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

didn’t want anybody else to mention our mother either, I think.
From time to time, though, we would all go over to Kalamazoo
to visit her. Most often we older ones went singly, for it was
something you didn’t want to have to experience with anyone
else present, even your brother or sister.

During this period, the visit to my mother that I most remem-
ber was toward the end of that seventh-grade year, when our
father’s grown daughter by his first marriage, Ella, came from
Boston to visit us. Wilfred and Hilda had exchanged some letters
with Ella, and I, at Hilda’s suggestion, had wnitten to her from
the Swerlins’. We were all excited and happy when her letter
told us that she was coming to Lansing.

I think the major impact of Ella’s arrival, at least upon me,
was that she was the first really proud black woman I had ever
seen in my life. She was plainly proud of her very dark skin.
This was unheard of among Negroes in those days, especially
in Lansing.

I hadn’t been sure just what day she would come. And then
one afternoon I got home from school and there she was. She
hugged me, stood me away, looked me up and down. A com-
manding woman, maybe even bigger than Mrs. Swerlin. Ella
wasn’t just black, but like our father, she was jet black. The
way She sat, moved, talked, did everything, bespoke somebody
who did and got exactly what she wanted. This was the woman
my father had boasted of so often for having brought so many
of their family out of Georgia to Boston. She owned some prop-
erty, he would say, and she was ‘‘in society.’” She had come
North with nothing, and she had worked and saved and had
invested in property that she built up in value, and then she
Started sending money to Georgia for another sister, brother,
cousin, niece or nephew to come north to Boston. All that I had
heard was reflected in Ella’s appearance and bearing. I had never
been so impressed with anybody. She was in her second mar-
riage; her first husband had been a doctor.

Ella asked all kinds of questions about how I was doing; she
had already heard from Wilfred and Hilda about my election as
Class president. She asked especially about my grades, and I ran
and got my report cards. I was then one of the three highest in
the class. Ella praised me. I asked her about her brother, Earl,
and her sister, Mary. She had the exciting news that Earl was a

MASCOT 35

singer with a band in Boston. He was singing under the name
of Jimmy Carleton. Mary was also doing well.

Ella told me about other relatives from that branch of the
family. A number of them I’d never heard of; she had helped
them up from Georgia. They, in their turn, had helped up others.
‘We Littles have to stick together,’’ Ella said. It thrilled me to
hear her say that, and even more, the way she said it. I had
become a mascot; our branch of the family was split to pieces;
I had just about forgotten about being a Little in any family
sense. She said that different members of the family were work-
ing in good jobs, and some even had small businesses going.
Most of them were homeowners.

When Ella suggested that all of us Littles in Lansing accom-
pany her on a visit to our mother, we all were grateful. We all
felt that if anyone could do anything that could help our mother,
that might help her get well and come back, it would be Ella.
Anyway, all of us, for the first time together, went with Ella to
Kalamazoo.

Our mother was smiling when they brought her out. She was
extremely surprised when she saw Ella. They made a striking
contrast, the thin near-white woman and the big black one hug-
ging each other. I don’t remember much about the rest of the
visit, except that there was a lot of talking, and Ella had every-
thing in hand, and we left with all of us feeling better than we
ever had about the circumstances. I know that for the first time,
I felt as though I had visited with someone who had some kind
of physical illness that had just lingered on.

A few days later, after visiting the homes where each of us
were staying, Ella left Lansing and returned to Boston. But be-
fore leaving, she told me to wnite to her regularly. And she had
suggested that I might like to spend my summer holiday visiting
her in Boston. I jumped at that chance.

That summer of 1940, in Lansing, I caught the Greyhound bus
for Boston with my cardboard suitcase, and wearing my green
suit. If someone had hung a sign, ‘‘HICK,’’ around my neck, I
couldn’t have looked much more obvious. They didn’t have the
tumpikes then; the bus stopped at what seemed every comer and
cowpatch. From my seat in—you guessed it—the back of the
bus, I gawked out of the window at white man’s America rolling

36 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

past for what seemed a month, but must have been only a day
and a half.

When we finally arrived, Ella met me at the terminal and took
me home. The house was on Waumbeck Street in the Sugar Hill
section of Roxbury, the Harlem of Boston. I met Ella’s second
husband, Frank, who was now a soldier; and her brother Earl,
the singer who called himself Jimmy Carleton; and Mary, who
was very different from her older sister. It’s funny how I seemed
to think of Mary as Ella’s sister, instead of her being, just as
Ella is, my own half-sister. It’s probably because Ella and I
always were much closer as basic types; we’re dominant people,
and Mary has always been mild and quiet, almost shy.

Ella was busily involved in dozens of things. She belonged
to I don’t know how many different clubs; she was a leading
light of local so-called ‘‘black society.’’ I saw and met a hundred
black people there whose big-city talk and ways left my mouth
hanging open.

I couldn’t have feigned indifference if I had tried to. People
talked casually about Chicago, Detroit, New York. I didn’t know
the world contained as many Negroes as I saw thronging down-
town Roxbury at night, especially on Saturdays. Neon lights,
nightclubs, poolhalls, bars, the cars they drove! Restaurants
made the streets smell—rich, greasy, down-home black cook-
ing! Jukeboxes blared Erskine Hawkins, Duke Ellington, Cootie
Williams, dozens of others. If somebody had told me then that
some day I’d know them all personally, I’d have found it hard
to believe. The biggest bands, like these, played at the Roseland
State Ballroom, on Boston’s Massachusetts Avenue—one night
for Negroes, the next night for whites.

I saw for the first time occasional black-white couples stroll-
ing around arm in arm. And on Sundays, when Ella, Mary, or
somebody took me to church, I saw churches for black people
such as J had never seen. They were many times finer than the
white church I had attended back in Mason, Michigan. There,
the white people just sat and worshiped with words; but the
Boston Negroes, like all other Negroes I had ever seen at church,
threw their souls and bodies wholly into worship.

Two or three times, I wrote letters to Wilfred intended for
everybody back in Lansing. I said I’d try to describe it when I
got back.

MASCOT 37

But I found I couldn’t.

My restlessness with Mason—and for the first time in my life
a restlessness with being around white people—began as soon
as I got back home and entered eighth grade.

I continued to think constantly about all that I had seen in
Boston, and about the way I had felt there. I know now that it
was the sense of being a real part of a mass of my own kind, for
the first time.

The white people—classmates, the Swerlins, the people at the
restaurant where I worked—noticed the change. They said,
‘“You’re acting so strange. You don’t seem like yourself, Mal-
colm. What’s the matter?’’

I kept close to the top of the class, though. The topmost scho-
lastic standing, I remember, kept shifting between me, a girl
named Audrey Slaugh, and a boy named Jimmy Cotton.

It went on that way, as I became increasingly restless and
disturbed through the first semester. And then one day, just
about when those of us who had passed were about to move up
to 8-A, from which we would enter high school the next year,
something happened which was to become the first major tumn-
ing point of my life.

Somehow, I happened to be alone in the classroom with Mr.
Ostrowski, my English teacher. He was a tall, rather reddish
white man and he had a thick mustache. I had gotten some of
my best marks under him, and he had always made me feel that
he liked me. He was, as I have mentioned, a natural-born ‘‘ad-
visor,’’ about what you ought to read, to do, or think—about
any and everything. We used to make unkind jokes about him:
why was he teaching in Mason instead of somewhere else, get-
ting for himself some of the “‘success in life’’ that he kept telling
us how to get?

I know that he probably meant well in what he happened to
advise me that day. I doubt that he meant any harm. It was just
in his nature as an American white man. I was one of his top
students, one of the school’s top students—but all he could see
for me was the kind of future ‘‘in your place’’ that almost all
white people see for black people.

He told me, ‘‘Malco!m, you ought to be thinking about a
career. Have you been giving it thought?’”’

The truth is, I hadn’t. I never have figured out why I told him,

38 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

‘“Well, yes, sir, I’ve been thinking I’d like to be a lawyer.”’
Lansing certainly had no Negro lawyers—or doctors either—in
those days, to hold up an image J might have aspired to. All I
really knew for certain was that a lawyer didn’t wash dishes, as
I was doing.

Mr. Ostrowski looked surprised, I remember, and leaned back
in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He kind of
half-smiled and said, ‘‘Malcolm, one of life’s first needs is for
us to be realistic. Don’t misunderstand me, now. We all here
like you, you know that. But you’ve got to be realistic about
being a nigger. A lawyer—that’s no realistic goal for a nigger.
You need to think about something you can be. You’re good
with your hands—making things. Everybody admires your car-
pentry shop work. Why don’t you plan on carpentry? People
like you as a person—you’d get all kinds of work.’’

The more I thought afterwards about what he said, the more
uneasy it made me. It just kept treading around in my mind.

What made it really begin to disturb me was Mr. Ostrowski’s
advice to others in my class—all of them white. Most of them
had told him they were planning to become farmers. But those
who wanted to strike out on their own, to try something new,
he had encouraged. Some, mostly girls, wanted to be teachers.
A few wanted other professions, such as one boy who wanted
to become a county agent; another, a veterinarian; and one girl
wanted to be a nurse. They all reported that Mr. Ostrowski had
encouraged what they had wanted. Yet nearly none of them had
earned marks equal to mine.

It was a surprising thing that I had never thought of it that
way before, but I realized that whatever I wasn’t, I was smarter
than nearly all of those white kids. But apparently I was still not
intelligent enough, in their eyes, to become whatever J wanted
to be.

It was then that I began to change— inside.

I drew away from white people. I came to class, and I an-
swered when called upon. It became a physical strain simply to
sit in Mr. Ostrowski’s class.

Where “‘nigger’’ had slipped off my back before, wherever I
heard it now, I stopped and looked at whoever said it. And they
looked surprised that I did.

I quit hearing so much ‘‘nigger’’ and ‘‘What’s wrong?’’—

MASCOT 39

which was the way I wanted it. Nobody, including the teachers,
could decide what had come over me. I knew I was being dis-
cussed.

In a few more weeks, it was that way, too, at the restaurant
where I worked washing dishes, and at the Swerlins’.

One day soon after, Mrs. Swerlin called me into the living
room, and there was the state man, Maynard Allen. I knew from
their faces that something was about to happen. She told me that
none of them could understand why—after I had done so well
in school, and on my job, and living with them, and after ev-
eryone in Mason had come to like me—I had lately begun to
make them all feel that I wasn’t happy there anymore.

She said she felt there was no need for me to stay at the
detention home any longer, and that arrangements had been made
for me to go and live with the Lyons family, who liked me so
much.

She stood up and put out her hand. ‘‘I guess I’ve asked you
a hundred times, Malcolm—do you want to tell me what’s
wrong?’

I shook her hand, and said, ‘‘Nothing, Mrs. Swerlin.’’ Then
I went and got my things, and came back down. At the living-
room door I saw her wiping her eyes. I felt very bad. I thanked
her and went out in front to Mr. Allen, who took me over to the
Lyons’.

Mr. and Mrs. Lyons, and their children, during the two
months I lived with them—while finishing eighth grade—also
tried to get me to tell them what was wrong. But somehow I
couldn’t tell them, either.

T went every Saturday to see my brothers and sisters in Lan-
sing, and almost every other day I wrote to Ella in Boston. Not
saying why, I told Ella that I wanted to come there and live.

I don’t know how she did it, but she arranged for official
custody of me to be transferred from Michigan to Massachu-
setts, and the very week I finished the eighth grade, I again
boarded the Greyhound bus for Boston.

I’ve thought about that time a lot since then. No physical
move in my life has been more pivotal or profound in its reper-
cussions.

If I had stayed on in Michigan, I would probably have married

40 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

one of those Negro girls I knew and liked in Lansing. I might
have become one of those state capitol] building shoeshine boys,
or a Lansing Country Club waiter, or gotten one of the other
menial jobs which, in those days, among Lansing Negroes,
would have been considered ‘‘successful’’—or even become a
carpenter.

Whatever I have done since then, I have driven myself to
become a success at it. I’ve often thought that if Mr. Ostrowski
had encouraged me to become a lawyer, I would today probably
be among some city’s professional black bourgeoisie, sipping
cocktails and palming myself off as a community spokesman for
and leader of the suffering black masses, while my primary con-
cern would be to grab a few more crumbs from the groaning
board of the two-faced whites with whom they’re begging to
‘integrate.’

All praise is due to Allah that I went to Boston when I did. If
I hadn’t, I’d probably still be a brainwashed black Christian.

CHAPTER THREE
“HOMEBOY”

I looked like Li’] Abner. Mason, Michigan, was written all over
me. My kinky, reddish hair was cut hick style, and I didn’t even
use grease in it. My green suit’s coat sleeves stopped above my
wrists, the pants legs showed three inches of socks. Just a shade
lighter green than the suit was my narrow-collared, three-quarter
length Lansing department store topcoat. My appearance was
too much for even Ella. But she told me later she had seen
countrified members of the Little family come up from Georgia
in even worse shape than I was.

Ella had fixed up a nice little upstairs room for me. And she
was truly a Georgia Negro woman when she got into the kitchen
with her pots and pans. She was the kind of cook who would
heap up your plate with such as ham hock, greens, black-eyed
peas, fried fish, cabbage, sweet potatoes, grits and gravy, and
combread. And the more you put away the better she felt. I
worked out at Ella’s kitchen table like there was no tomorrow.

Ella still seemed to be as big, black, outspoken and impressive
a woman as she had been in Mason and Lansing. Only about
two weeks before I arrived, she had split up with her second
husband—the soldier, Frank, whom I had met there the previous
summer; but she was taking it right in stride. I could see, though
I didn’t say, how any average man would find it almost impos-
sible to live for very long with a woman whose every instinct
was to run everything and everybody she had anything to do
with—including me. About my second day there in Roxbury,
Ella told me that she didn’t want me to start hunting for a job
right away, like most newcomer Negroes did. She said that she

41

42 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

had told all those she’d brought North to take their time, to walk
around, to travel the buses and the subway, and get the feel of
Boston, before they tied themselves down working somewhere,
because they would never again have the time to really see and
get to know anything about the city they were living in. Ella
said she’d help me find a job when it was time for me to go to
work.

So I went gawking around the neighborhood—the Waumbeck
and Humboldt Avenue Hill section of Roxbury, which is some-
thing like Harlem’s Sugar Hill, where I’d later live. I saw those
Roxbury Negroes acting and living differently from any black
people I’d ever dreamed of in my life. This was the snooty-
black neighborhood; they called themselves the ‘‘Four Hun-
dred,’’ and looked down their noses at the Negroes of the black
ghetto, or so-called ‘‘town’’ section where Mary, my other half-
sister, lived.

What I thought I was seeing there in Roxbury were high-class,
educated, important Negroes, living well, working in big jobs
and positions. Their quiet homes sat back in their mowed yards.
These Negroes walked along the sidewalks looking haughty and
dignified, on their way to work, to shop, to visit, to church. I
know now, of course, that what I was really seeing was only a
big-city version of those “‘successful’’ Negro bootblacks and
janitors back in Lansing. The only difference was that the ones
in Boston had been brainwashed even more thoroughly. They
prided themselves on being incomparably more “‘cultured,”’
‘‘cultivated,’’ “‘dignified,’’ and better off than their black breth-
ren down in the ghetto, which was no further away than you
could throw a rock. Under the pitiful misapprehension that it
would make them ‘‘better,’’ these Hill Negroes were breaking
their backs trying to imitate white people.

Any black family that had been around Boston long enough
to own the home they lived in was considered among the Hill
elite. It didn’t make any difference that they had to rent out
rooms to make ends meet. Then the native-born New England-
ers among them looked down upon recently migrated Southern
home-owners who lived next door, like Ella. And a big per-
centage of the Hill dwellers were in Ella’s category—Southern
strivers and scramblers, and West Indian Negroes, whom both
the New Englanders and the Southerners called ‘‘Black Jews.”’

“HOMEBOY” 43

Usually it was the Southerners and the West Indians who not
only managed to own the places where they lived, but also at
least one other house which they rented as income property. The
snooty New Englanders usually owned less than they.

In those days on the Hill, any who could claim ‘‘profes-
sional’’ status—teachers, preachers, practical nurses—also con-
sidered themselves superior. Foreign diplomats could have
modeled their conduct on the way the Negro postmen, Pullman
porters, and dining car waiters of Roxbury acted, striding around
as if they were wearing top hats and cutaways.

I’d guess that eight out of ten of the Hill Negroes of Roxbury,
despite the impressive-sounding job titles they affected, actually
worked as menials and servants. ‘‘He’s in banking,’’ or ‘‘He’s
in securities.’’ It sounded as though they were discussing a
Rockefeller or a Mellon—and not some gray-headed, dignity-
posturing bank janitor, or bond-house messenger. ‘‘I’m with an
old family’’ was the euphemism used to dignify the professions
of white folks’ cooks and maids who talked so affectedly among
their own kind in Roxbury that you couldn’t even understand
them. I don’t know how many forty- and fifty-year-old errand
boys went down the Hill dressed like ambassadors in black suits
and white collars, to downtown jobs ‘‘in government,’’ ‘‘in fi-
nance,”’ or “‘in law.’’ It has never ceased to amaze me how so
many Negroes, then and now, could stand the indignity of that
kind of self-delusion.

Soon I ranged out of Roxbury and began to explore Boston
proper. Historic buildings everywhere I turned, and plaques and
markers and statues for famous events and men. One statue in
the Boston Commons astonished me: a Negro named Crispus
Attucks, who had been the first man to fall in the Boston Mas-
sacre. I had never known anything like that.

I roamed everywhere. In one direction, I walked as far as
Boston University. Another day, I took my first subway nde. When
most of the people got off, I followed. It was Cambridge, and I
circled all around in the Harvard University campus. Some-
where, I had already heard of Harvard—though I didn’t know
much more about it. Nobody that day could have told me I
would give an address before the Harvard Law School Forum
some twenty years later.

I also did a lot of exploring downtown. Why a city would

44 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

have two big railroad stations—North Station and South Sta-
tion—I couldn’t understand. At both of the stations, I stood
around and watched people arrive and leave. And I did the same
thing at the bus station where Ella had met me. My wanderings
even led me down along the piers and docks where I read plaques
telling about the old sailing ships that used to put into port there.

In a letter to Wilfred, Hilda, Philbert, and Reginald back in
Lansing, I told them about all this, and about the winding, nar-
row, cobblestoned streets, and the houses that jammed up against
each other. Downtown Boston, I wrote them, had the biggest
stores I’d ever seen, and white people’s restaurants and hotels.
I made up my mind that I was going to see every movie that
came to the fine, air-conditioned theaters.

On Massachusetts Avenue, next door to one of them, the
Loew’s State Theater, was the huge, exciting Roseland State
Ballroom. Big posters out in front advertised the nationally fa-
mous bands, white and Negro, that had played there. “‘COM-
ING NEXT WEEK,’’ when I went by that first time, was Glenn
Muller. I remember thinking how nearly the whole evening’s
music at Mason High School dances had been Glenn Miller’s
records. What wouldn’t that crowd have given, I wondered, to
be standing where Glenn Miller’s band was actually going to
play? I didn’t know how familiar with Roseland I was going
to become.

Ella began to grow concerned, because even when I had fi-
nally had enough sight-seeing, I didn’t stick around very much
on the Hill. She kept dropping hints that I ought to mingle with
the “‘nice young people my age’’ who were to be Seen in the
Townsend Drugstore two blocks from her house, and a couple
of other places. But even before I came to Boston, I had always
felt and acted toward anyone my age as if they were in the ‘‘kid’’
class, like my younger brother Reginald. They had always
looked up to me as if I were considerably older. On weekends
back in Lansing where I’d go to get away from the white people
in Mason, I’d hung around in the Negro part of town with
Wilfred’s and Philbert’s set. Though all of them were several
years older than me, I was bigger, and I actually looked older
than most of them.

I didn’t want to disappoint or upset Ella, but despite her ad-
vice, I began going down into the town ghetto section. That

“HOMEBOY” 45

world of grocery stores, walk-up flats, cheap restaurants, pool-
rooms, bars, storefront churches, and pawnshops seemed to hold
a natural lure for me.

Not only was this part of Roxbury much more exciting, but I
felt more relaxed among Negroes who were being their natural
selves and not putting on airs. Even though I did live on the
Hill, my instincts were never—and still aren’t—to feel myself
better than any other Negro.

I spent the first month in town with my mouth hanging open.
The sharp-dressed young ‘‘cats’” who hung on the comers and
in the poolrooms, bars and restaurants, and who obviously didn’t
work anywhere, completely entranced me. I couldn’t get over
marveling at how their hair was straight and shiny like white
men’s hair; Ella told me this was called a ‘‘conk.’’ I had never
tasted a sip of liquor, never even smoked a cigarette, and here I
saw little black children, ten and twelve years old, shooting
craps, playing cards, fighting, getting grown-ups to put a penny
or a nickel on their number for them, things like that. And these
children threw around swear words I’d never heard before, even,
and slang expressions that were just as new to me, such as
“‘stud’’ and ‘‘cat’’ and ‘‘chick’’ and ‘“‘cool’’ and ‘‘hip.’’ Every
night as I lay in bed I turned these new words over in my mind.
It was shocking to me that in town, especially after dark, you’d
occasionally see a white girl and a Negro man strolling arm in
arm along the sidewalk, and mixed couples drinking in the neon-
lighted bars—not slipping off to some dark corner, as in Lan-
sing. I wrote Wilfred and Philbert about that, too.

I wanted to find a job myself, to surprise Ella. One afternoon,
something told me to go inside a poolroom whose window I was
looking through. I had looked through that window many times.
I wasn’t yearning to play pool; in fact, I had never held a cue
stick. But I was drawn by the sight of the cool-looking ‘‘cats’’
standing around inside, bending over the big, green, felt-topped
tables, making bets and shooting the bright-colored balls into
the holes. As I stared through the window this particular after-
noon, something made me decide to venture inside and talk to
a dark, stubby, conk-headed fellow who racked up balls for the
pool-players, whom I’d heard called ‘‘Shorty.’’ One day he had
come outside and seen me standing there and said ‘‘Hi, Red,”’
so that made me figure he was friendly.

46 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

As inconspicuously as I could, I slipped inside the door and
around the side of the poolroom, avoiding people, and on to the
back, where Shorty was filling an aluminum can with the pow-
der that pool players dust on their hands. He looked up at me.
Later on, Shorty would enjoy teasing me about how with that
first glance he knew my whole story. ‘‘Man, that cat still smelled
country!’’ he’d say, laughing. ‘‘Cat’s legs was so long and his
pants so short his knees showed—an’ his head looked like a briar
patch!’’

But that afternoon Shorty didn’t let it show in his face how
‘‘country’’ I appeared when I told him Id appreciate it if he’d
tell me how could somebody go about getting a job like his.

‘‘If you mean racking up balls,’’ said Shorty, ‘‘I don’t know
of no pool joints around here needing anybody. You mean you
just want any slave you can find?’’ A ‘‘slave’’ meant work, a
job.

He asked what kind of work I had done. I told him that I’d
washed restaurant dishes in Mason, Michigan. He nearly
dropped the powder can. ‘‘My homeboy! Man, gimme some
skin! I’m from Lansing!’’

I never told Shorty—and he never suspected—that he was
about ten years older than I. He took us to be about the same
age. At first I would have been embarrassed to tell him, later I
just never bothered. Shorty had dropped out of first-year high
school in Lansing, lived awhile with an uncle and aunt in De-
troit, and had spent the last six years living with his cousin in
Roxbury. But when I mentioned the names of Lansing people
and places, he remembered many, and pretty soon we sounded
as if we had been raised in the same block. I could sense Shorty’s
genuine gladness, and I don’t have to say how lucky I felt to
find a friend as hip as he obviously was.

‘**Man, this is a swinging town if you dig it,’’ Shorty said.
‘“You’re my homeboy—I’m going to school you to the happen-
ings.’’ I stood there and grinned like a fool. “You got to go
anywhere now? Well, stick around until I get off.’’

One thing I liked immediately about Shorty was his frankness.
When I told him where I lived, he said what I already knew—
that nobody in town could stand the Hill Negroes. But he thought
a sister who gave me a “‘pad,’’ not charging me rent, not even
running me out to find ‘*‘some slave,’’ couldn’t be all bad.

“HOMEBOY” 47

Shorty’s slave in the poolroom, he said, was just to keep ends
together while he learned his horn. A couple of years before,
he’d hit the numbers and bought a saxophone. ‘‘Got it right in
there in the closet now, for my lesson tonight.’’ Shorty was
taking lessons ‘‘with some other studs,’’ and he intended one
day to organize his own small band. ‘‘There’s a lot of bread to
be made gigging right around here in Roxbury,’’ Shorty ex-
plained to me. ‘‘I don’t dig joining some big band, one-nighting
all over just to say I played with Count or Duke or somebody.’’
I thought that was smart. I wished I had studied a horn; but I
never had been exposed to one.

All afternoon, between trips up front to rack balls, Shorty
talked to me out of the comer of his mouth: which hustlers—
standing around, or playing at this or that table—sold ‘‘reefers,’’
or had just come out of prison, or were “‘second-story men.”’
Shorty told me that he played at least a dollar a day on the
numbers. He said as soon as he hit a number, he would use
the winnings to organize his band.

I was ashamed to have to admit that I had never played the
numbers. ‘‘Well, you ain’t never had nothing to play with,’’
he said, excusing me, ‘‘but you start when you get a slave, and
if you hit, you got a stake for something.’’

He pointed out some gamblers and some pimps. Some of
them had white whores, he whispered. “‘I ain’t going to lie—I
dig them two-dollar white chicks,’’ Shorty said. ‘‘There’s a lot
of that action around here, nights: you’ll see it.’’ I said I already
had seen some. ‘‘You ever had one?’’ he asked.

My embarrassment at my inexperience showed. ‘‘Hell, man,”’
he said, ‘‘don’t be ashamed. I had a few before I left Lansing—
them Polack chicks that used to come over the bridge. Here,
they’re mostly Italians and Irish. But it don’t matter what
kind, they’re something else! Ain’t no different nowhere—
there’s nothing they love better than a black stud.’’

Through the afternoon, Shorty introduced me to players and
loungers. ‘‘My homeboy,”’’ he’d say, “‘he’s looking for a slave
if you hear anything.’’ They all said they’d look out.

At seven o’clock, when the night ball-racker came on, Shorty
told me he had to hurry to his saxophone lesson. But before he
left, he held out to me the six or seven dollars he had collected

48 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

that day in nickel and dime tips. ‘‘ You got enough bread, home-
boy?”’

I was okay, I told him—I had two dollars. But Shorty made
me take three more. “‘Little fattening for your pocket,’’ he said.
Before we went out, he opened his saxophone case and showed
me the hom. It was gleaming brass against the green velvet, an
alto sax. He said, ‘“Keep cool, homeboy, and come back to-
morrow. Some of the cats will turn you up a slave.’”’

When I got home, Ella said there had been a telephone call
from somebody named Shorty. He had left a message that over
at the Roseland State Ballroom, the shoeshine boy was quitting
that night, and Shorty had told him to hold the job for me.

‘*Malcolm, you haven’t had any experience shining shoes,”’
Ella said. Her expression and tone of voice told me she wasn’t
happy about my taking that job. I didn’t particularly care, be-
cause I was already speechless thinking about being somewhere
close to the greatest bands in the world. I didn’t even wait to eat
any dinner.

The ballroom was all lighted when I got there. A man at the
front door was letting in members of Benny Goodman’s band.
I told him I wanted to see the shoeshine boy, Freddie.

‘“You’re going to be the new one?”’ he asked. I said I thought
I was, and he laughed, ‘‘Well, maybe you’ll hit the numbers
and get a Cadillac, too.’’ He told me that I’d find Freddie up-
stairs in the men’s room on the second floor.

But downstairs before I went up, I stepped cver and snatched
a glimpse inside the ballroom. I just couldn’t believe the size of
that waxed floor! At the far end, under the soft, rose-colored
lights, was the bandstand with the Benny Goodman musicians
moving around, laughing and talking, arranging their horns and
stands.

A wiry, brown-skinned, conked fellow upstairs in the men’s
room greeted me. ‘“You Shorty’s homeboy?’’ I said I was, and
he said he was Freddie. ‘‘Good old boy,’’ he said. ‘‘He called
me, he just heard I hit the big number, and he figured right I’d
be quitting.’” I told Freddie what the man at the front door had
said about a Cadillac. He laughed and said, ‘‘Burns them white
cats up when you get yourself something. Yeah, I told them I
was going to get me one—just to bug them.”’

“HOMEBOY” 49

Freddie then said for me to pay close attention, that he was
going to be busy and for me to watch but not get in the way,
and he’d try to get me ready to take over at the next dance, a
couple of nights later.

As Freddie busied himself setting up the shoeshine stand, he

told me, ‘‘Get here early . . . your shoeshine rags and brushes
by this footstand ... your polish bottles, paste wax, suede
brushes over here . . . everything in place, you get rushed, you

99

never need to waste motion... .
' While you shined shoes, I learned, you also kept watch on
customers inside, leaving the urinals. You darted over and of-
fered a small white hand towel. ‘‘A lot of cats who ain’t plan-
ning to wash their hands, sometimes you can run up with a towel
and shame them. Your towels are really your best hustle in here.
Cost you a penny apiece to launder—you always get at least a
nickel tip.”’

The shoeshine customers, and any from the inside rest room
who took a towel, you whiskbroomed a couple of licks. “‘A
nickel or a dime tip, just give ’em that,’’ Freddie said. ‘‘But for
two bits, Uncle Tom a littke—white cats especially like that. I’ve
had them to come back two, three times a dance.”’

From down below, the sound of the music had begun floating
up. I guess I stood transfixed. ‘‘You never seen a big dance?’’
asked Freddie. ‘‘Run on awhile, and watch.’’

There were a few couples already dancing under the rose-
colored lights. But even more exciting to me was the crowd
thronging in. The most glamorous-looking white women I’d
ever Seen—young ones, old ones, white cats buying tickets at
the window, sticking big wads of green bills back into their
pockets, checking the women’s coats, and taking their arms and
squiring them inside.

Freddie had some early customers when I got back upstairs.
Between the shoeshine stand and thrusting towels to them just
as they approached the washbasin, Freddie seemed to be doing
four things at once. “‘Here, you can take over the whiskbroom,”’
he said, ‘“‘just two or three licks—but let ’em feel it.”’

When things slowed a little, he said, ‘You ain’t seen nothing
tonight. You wait until you see a spooks’ dance! Man, our peo-
ple carry on!’’ Whenever he had a moment, he kept schooling
me. “‘Shoelaces, this drawer here. You just starting out, I’m

50 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

going to make these to you as a present. Buy them for a nickel
a pair, tell cats they need laces if they do, and charge two bits.”’

Every Benny Goodman record I’d ever heard in my life, it
seemed, was filtering faintly into where we were. During an-
other customer lull, Freddie let me slip back outside again to
listen. Peggy Lee was at the mike singing. Beautiful! She had
just joined the band and she was from North Dakota and had
been singing with a group in Chicago when Mrs. Benny Good-
man discovered her, we had heard some customers say. She
finished the song and the crowd burst into applause. She was a
big hit.

“*It knocked me out, too, when I first broke in here,’’ Freddie
said, grinning, when I went back in there. ‘‘But, look, you ever
shined any shoes?’’ He laughed when I said I hadn’t, excepting
my own. ‘‘Well, let’s get to work. I never had neither.’’ Freddie
got on the stand and went to work on his own shoes. Brush,
liquid polish, brush, paste wax, shine rag, lacquer sole dressing

. . Step by step, Freddie showed me what to do.

‘*But you got to get a whole lot faster. You can’t waste time!’’
Freddie showed me how fast on my own shoes. Then, because
business was tapering off, he had time to give me a demonstra-
tion of how to make the shine rag pop like a firecracker. *‘Dig
the action?’’ he asked. He did it in slow motion. I got down and
tried it on his shoes. I had the principle of it. ‘‘Just got to do it
faster,’’ Freddie said. ‘‘It’s a jive noise, that’s all. Cats tip bet-
ter, they figure you’re knocking yourself out!’’

By the end of the dance, Freddie had let me shine the shoes
of three or four stray drunks he talked into having shines, and I
had practiced picking up my speed on Freddie’s shoes until they
looked like mirrors. After we had helped the janitors to clean
up the ballroom after the dance, throwing out all the paper and
cigarette butts and empty liquor bottles, Freddie was nice enough
to drive me all the way home to Ella’s on the Hill in the sec-
ondhand maroon Buick he said he was going to trade in on his
Cadillac. He talked to me all the way. “‘I guess it’s all right if I
tell you, pick up a couple of dozen packs of rubbers, two-bits
apiece. You notice some of those cats that came up to me around
the end of the dance? Well, when some have new chicks going
right, they’ll come asking you for rubbers. Charge a dollar,
generally you’ll get an extra tip.”’

“HOMEBOY” )Dl

He looked across at me. ‘‘Some hustles you’re too new for.
Cats will ask you for liquor, some will want reefers. But you
don’t need to have nothing except rubbers—until you can dig
who’s a cop.”’

‘“You can make ten, twelve dollars a dance for yourself if
you work everything right,’’ Freddie said, before I got out of
the car in front of Ella’s. ‘“The main thing you got to remember
is that everything in the world is a hustle. So long, Red.”’

The next time I ran into Freddie I was downtown one night a
few weeks later. He was parked in his pearl-gray Cadillac, sharp
as a tack, ‘‘cooling it.”’

‘‘Man, you sure schooled me!’’ I said, and he laughed; he
knew what I meant. It hadn’t taken me long on the job to find
out that Freddie had done less shoeshining and towel-hustling
than selling liquor and reefers, and putting white ‘‘Johns’’ in
touch with Negro whores. I also learned that white girls always
flocked to the Negro dances—some of them whores whose pimps
brought them to mix business and pleasure, others who came
with their black boy friends, and some who came in alone, for
a little freelance lusting among a plentiful availability of enthu-
siastic Negro men.

At the white dances, of course, nothing black was allowed,
and that’s where the black whores’ pimps soon showed a new
shoeshine boy what he could pick up on the side by slipping a
phone number or address to the white Johns who came around
the end of the dance looking for ‘“‘black chicks.’’

Most of Roseland’s dances were for whites only, and they
had white bands only. But the only white band ever to play there
at a Negro dance, to my recollection, was Charlie Barnet’s. The
fact is that very few white bands could have satisfied the Negro
dancers. But I know that Charlie Barmnet’s ‘‘Cherokee’’ and his
‘*Redskin Rhumba’’ drove those Negroes wild. They’d jam-pack
that ballroom, the black girls in way-out silk and satin dresses
and shoes, their hair done in all kinds of styles, the men sharp
in their zoot suits and crazy conks, and everybody grinning and
greased and gassed.

Some of the bandsmen would come up to the men’s room at
about eight o’clock and get shoeshines before they went to work.
Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Lionel Hampton, Cootie Wil-

52 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

liams, Jimmie Lunceford were just a few of those who sat in my
chair. I would really make my shine rag sound like someone
had set off Chinese firecrackers. Duke’s great alto saxman,
Johnny Hodges—he was Shorty’s idol—still owes me for a shoe-
shine I gave him. He was in the chair one night, having a friendly
argument with the drummer, Sonny Greer, who was standing
there, when I tapped the bottom of his shoes to signal that I was
finished. Hodges stepped down, reaching his hand in his pocket
to pay me, but then snatched his hand out to gesture, and just
forgot me, and walked away. I wouldn’t have dared to bother
the man who could do what he did with ‘‘Daydream’’ by asking
him for fifteen cents.

I remember that I struck up a little shoeshine-stand conver-
sation with Count Basie’s great blues singer, Jimmie Rushing.
(He’s the one famous for “‘Sent For You Yesterday, Here You
Come Today’”’ and things like that.) Rushing’s feet, I remember,
were big and funny-shaped—not long like most big feet, but
they were round and roly-poly like Rushing. Anyhow, he even
introduced me to some of the other Basie cats, like Lester Young,
Harry Edison, Buddy Tate, Don Byas, Dickie Wells, and Buck
Clayton. They’d walk in the rest room later, by themselves.
‘‘Hi, Red.’’ They’d be up there in my chair, and my shine rag
was popping to the beat of all of their records, spinning in my
head. Musicians never have had, anywhere, a greater shoeshine-
boy fan than I was. I would write to Wilfred and Hilda and
Philbert and Reginald back in Lansing, trying to describe it.

I never got any decent tips until the middle of the Negro
dances, which is when the dancers started feeling good and get-
ting generous. After the white dances, when I helped to clean
out the ballroom, we would throw out perhaps a dozen empty
liquor bottles. But after the Negro dances, we would have to
throw out cartons full of empty fifth bottles—not rotgut, either,
but the best brands, and especially Scotch.

During lulls up there in the men’s room, sometimes I’d get in
five minutes of watching the dancing. The white people danced
as though somebody had trained them—left, one, two; right,
three, four—the same steps and patterns over and over, as though
somebody had wound them up. But those Negroes—nobody in
the world could have choreographed the way they did whatever

“HOMEBOY” 53

they felt—just grabbing partners, even the white chicks who
came to the Negro dances. And my black brethren today may
hate me for saying it, but a lot of black girls nearly got run over
by some of those Negro males scrambling to get at those white
women; you would have thought God had lowered some of his
angels. Times have sure changed; if it happened today, those
same black girls would go after those Negro men—and the white
women, foo.

Anyway, some couples were so abandoned—flinging high and
wide, improvising steps and movements—that you couldn’t be-
lieve it. I could feel the beat in my bones, even though I had
never danced.

‘‘Showtime!’’ people would start hollering about the last hour
of the dance. Then a couple of dozen really wild couples would
stay on the floor, the girls changing to low white sneakers. The
band now would really be blasting, and all the other dancers
would form a clapping, shouting circle to watch that wild com-
petition as it began, covering only a quarter or so of the ballroom
floor. The band, the spectators and the dancers would be making
the Roseland Ballroom feel like a big, rocking ship. The spot-
light would be turing, pink, yellow, green, and blue, picking
up the couples lindy-hopping as if they had gone mad. ‘‘Wail,
man, wail!’’ people would be shouting at the band; and it would
be wailing, until first one and then another couple just ran out
of strength and stumbled off toward the crowd, exhausted and
soaked with sweat. Sometimes I would be down there standing
inside the door jumping up and down in my gray jacket with the
whiskbroom in the pocket, and the manager would have to come
and shout at me that I had customers upstairs.

The first liquor I drank, my first cigarettes, even my first
reefers, I can’t specifically remember. But I know they were all
mixed together with my first shooting craps, playing cards, and
betting my dollar a day on the numbers, as I started hanging out
at night with Shorty and his friends. Shorty’s jokes about how
country I had been made us all laugh. I still was country, I know
now, but it all felt so great because I was accepted. All of us
would be in somebody’s place, usually one of the girls’, and
we'd be turning on, the reefers making everybody’s head light,
or the whisky aglow in our middles. Everybody understood that
my head had to stay kinky awhile longer, to grow long enough

54 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

for Shorty to conk it for me. One of these nights, I remarked
that I had saved about half enough to get a zoot.

“Save ?’’ Shorty couldn’t believe it. ‘“‘Homeboy, you never
heard of credit?’’ He told me he’d call a neighborhood clothing
store the first thing in the morning, and that I should be there
early.

A salesman, a young Jew, met me when I came in. “‘You’re
Shorty’s friend?’’ I said I was; it amazed me—all of Shorty’s
contacts. The salesman wrote my name on a form, and the Rose-
land as where I worked, and Ella’s address as where I lived.
Shorty’s name was put down as recommending me. The sales-
man said, ‘‘Shorty’s one of our best customers.’”’

I was measured, and the young salesman picked off a rack a
Zoot suit that was just wild: sky-blue pants thirty inches in the
knee and angle-narrowed down to twelve inches at the bottom,
and a long coat that pinched my waist and flared out below my
knees.

As a gift, the salesman said, the store would give me a narrow
leather belt with my initial ‘‘L’’ on it. Then he said I ought to
also buy a hat, and I did—blue, with a feather in the four-inch
brim. Then the store gave me another present: a long, thick-
linked, gold-plated chain that swung down lower than my coat
hem. I was sold forever on credit.

When I modeled the zoot for Ella, she took a long look and
said, ‘‘Well, I guess it had to happen.’’ I took three of those
twenty-five-cent sepia-toned, while-you-wait pictures of my-
self, posed the way “‘hipsters’’ wearing their zoots would ‘‘cool
it’’—hat dangled, knees drawn close together, feet wide apart,
both index fingers jabbed toward the floor. The long coat and
Swinging chain and the Punjab pants were much more dramatic
if you stood that way. One picture, I autographed and airmailed
to my brothers and sisters in Lansing, to let them see how well
I was doing. I gave another one to Ella, and the third to Shorty,
who was really moved: I could tell by the way he said, ‘‘Thanks,
homeboy.’’ It was part of our “‘hip’’ code not to show that kind
of affection.

Shorty soon decided that my hair was finally long enough to
be conked. He had promised to school me in how to beat the
barbershops’ three- and four-dollar price by making up congo-
lene, and then conking ourselves.

“HOMEBOY” 55

I took the little list of ingredients he had printed out for me,
and went to a grocery store, where I got a can of Red Devil lye,
two eggs, and two medium-sized white potatoes. Then at a drug-
store near the poolroom, I asked for a large jar of Vaseline, a
large bar of soap, a large-toothed comb and a fine-toothed comb,
one of those rubber hoses with a metal spray-head, a rubber
apron and a pair of gloves.

‘‘Going to lay on that first conk?’’ the drugstore man asked
me. I proudly told him, grinning, ‘‘Right!’’

Shorty paid six dollars a week for a room in his cousin’s
Shabby apartment. His cousin wasn’t at home. “‘It’s like the
pad’s mine, he spends so much time with his woman,”’ Shorty
said. ‘‘Now, you watch me—”’

He peeled the potatoes and thin-sliced them into a quart-sized
Mason fruit jar, then started stirring them with a wooden spoon
as he gradually poured in a little over half the can of lye. ‘‘Never
use a metal spoon; the lye will turn it black,’’ he told me.

A jelly-like, starchy-looking glop resulted from the lye and
potatoes, and Shorty broke in the two eggs, stirring real fast—
his own conk and dark face bent down close. The congolene
turned pale-yellowish. ‘‘Feel the jar,’’ Shorty said. I cupped my
hand against the outside, and snatched it away. ‘‘Damn right,
it’s hot, that’s the lye,’’ he said. ‘‘So you know it’s going to
burn when I comb it in—it burns bad. But the longer you can
Stand it, the straighter the hair.’’

He made me sit down, and he tied the string of the new mbber
apron tightly around my neck, and combed up my bush of hair.
Then, from the big Vaseline jar, he took a handful and massaged
it hard all through my hair and into the scalp. He also thickly
Vaselined my neck, ears and forehead. *‘When I get to washing
out your head, be sure to tell me anywhere you feel any little
stinging,’’ Shorty warned me, washing his hands, then pulling
on the rubber gloves, and tying on his own rubber apron. ‘‘You
always got to remember that any congolene left in bums a sore
into your head.’’

The congolene just felt warm when Shorty started combing it
in. But then my head caught fire.

I gritted my teeth and tried to pull the sides of the kitchen
table together. The comb felt as if it was raking my skin off.

My eyes watered, my nose was minning. I couldn’t stand it

56 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

any longer; I bolted to the washbasin. I was cursing Shorty with
every name I could think of when he got the spray going and
started soap-lathering my head.

He lathered and spray-rinsed, lathered and spray-rinsed,
maybe ten or twelve times, each time gradually closing the hot-
water faucet, until the rinse was cold, and that helped some.

‘You feel any stinging spots?’’

‘‘No,’’ I managed to say. My knees were trembling.

‘*Sit back down, then. I think we got it all out okay.’’

The flame came back as Shorty, with a thick towel, started
drying my head, rubbing hard. ‘‘Easy, man, easy!’’ I kept
shouting.

‘‘The first time’s always worst. You get used to it better be-
fore long. You took it real good, homeboy. You got a good
conk.’’

When Shorty let me stand up and see in the mirror, my hair
hung down in limp, damp strings. My scalp still flamed, but not
as badly; I could bear it. He draped the towel around my shoul-
ders, over my rubber apron, and began again Vaselining my
hair.

I could feel him combing, straight back, first the big comb,
then the fine-tooth one.

Then, he was using a razor, very delicately, on the back of
my neck. Then, finally, shaping the sideburns.

My first view in the mirror blotted out the hurting. I’d seen
some pretty conks, but when it’s the first time, on your own
head, the transformation, after the lifetime of kinks, is stagger-
ing.

The mirror reflected Shorty behind me. We both were grin-
ning and sweating. And on top of my head was this thick, smooth
sheen of shining red hair—real red—as straight as any white
man’s.

How ridiculous I was! Stupid enough to stand there simply
lost in admiration of my hair now looking ‘*white,’’ reflected in
the mirror in Shorty’s room. I vowed that I’d never again be
without a conk, and I never was for many years.

This was my first really big step toward self-degradation: when
I endured all of that pain, literally burning my flesh to have it
look like a white man’s hair. I had joined that multitude of Negro
men and women in America who are brainwashed into believing

“HOMEBOY” 5/

that the black people are ‘‘inferior’’—and white people ‘‘supe-
rior’’—that they will even violate and mutilate their God-created
bodies to try to look ‘‘pretty’’ by white standards.

Look around today, in every small town and big city, from
two-bit catfish and soda-pop joints into the ‘‘integrated’’ lobby
of the Waldorf-Astoria, and you’ll see conks on black men. And
you’ ll see black women wearing these green and pink and purple
and red and platinum-blonde wigs. They’re all more ridiculous
than a slapstick comedy. It makes you wonder if the Negro has
completely lost his sense of identity, lost touch with himself.

You’ll see the conk worn by many, many so-called ‘‘upper-
class’’ Negroes, and, as much as I hate to say it about them, on
all too many Negro entertainers. One of the reasons that I’ve
especially admired some of them, like Lionel Hampton and Sid-
ney Poiter, among others, is that they have kept their natural
hair and fought to the top. I admire any Negro man who has
never had himself conked, or who has had the sense to get rid
of it—as I finally did.

I don’t know which kind of self-defacing conk is the greater
shame—the one you’ll see on the heads of the black so-called
‘middle class’’ and ‘‘upper class,’’ who ought to know better,
or the one you’ll see on the heads of the poorest, most down-
trodden, ignorant black men. I mean the legal-minimum-wage
ghetto-dwelling kind of Negro, as I was when I got my first one.
It’s generally among these poor fools that you’ll see a black
kerchief over the man’s head, like Aunt Jemima; he’s trying to
make his conk last longer, between trips to the barbershop. Only
for special occasions is this kerchief-protected conk exposed—
to show off how ‘‘sharp’’ and ‘‘hip’’ its owner is. The ironic
thing is that I have never heard any woman, white or black,
express any admiration for a conk. Of course, any white woman
with a black man isn’t thinking about his hair. But I don’t see
how on earth a black woman with any race pride could walk
down the street with any black man wearing a conk—the em-
blem of his shame that he is black.

To my own shame, when I say all of this I’m talking first of
all about myself—because you can’t show me any Negro who
ever conked more faithfully than I did. I’m speaking from per-
sonal experience when I say of any black man who conks today,

'58 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

or any white-wigged black woman, that if they gave the brains
in their heads just half as much attention as they do their hair,
they would be a thousand times better off.

CHAPTER FOUR
LAURA

Shorty would take me to groovy, frantic scenes in different
chicks’ and cats’ pads, where with the lights and juke down
mellow, everybody blew gage and juiced back and jumped. I
met chicks who were fine as May wine, and cats who were hip
to all happenings.

That paragraph is deliberate, of course; it’s just to display a
bit more of the slang that was used by everyone I respected as
‘“‘hip’’ in those days. And in no time at all, I was talking the
slang like a lifelong hipster.

Like hundreds of thousands of country-bred Negroes who had
come to the Northern black ghetto before me, and have come
since, I’d also acquired all the other fashionable ghetto adom-
ments—the zoot suits and conk that I have described, liquor,
cigarettes, then reefers—all to erase my embarrassing back-
ground. But I still harbored one secret humiliation: I couldn’t
dance.

I can’t remember when it was that I actually learned how—
that is to say, I can’t recall the specific night or nights. But
dancing was the chief action at those ‘“‘pad parties,’’ so I’ve no
doubt about how and why my initiation into lindy-hopping came
about. With alcohol or marijuana lightening my head, and that
wild music wailing away on those portable record players, it
didn’t take long to loosen up the dancing instincts in my African
heritage. All I remember is that during some party around this
time, when nearly everyone but me was up dancing, some girl
grabbed me—they often would take the initiative and grab a

59

60 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

partner, for no girl at those parties ever would dream that anyone
present couldn’t dance—and there I was out on the floor.

I was up in the jostling crowd—and suddenly, unexpectedly, I
got the idea. It was as though somebody had clicked on a light.
My long-suppressed African instincts broke through, and loose.

Having spent so much time in Mason’s white environment, I
had always believed and feared that dancing involved a certain
order or pattern of specific steps—as dancing is done by whites.
But here among my own less inhibited people, I discovered it
was simply letting your feet, hands and body spontaneously act
out whatever impulses were stirred by the music.

From then on, hardly a party took place without me turning
up—inviting myself, if I had to—and lindy-hopping my head
off.

I’d always been fast at picking up new things. I made up for
lost time now so fast that soon girls were asking me to dance
with them. I worked my partners hard; that’s why they liked me
so much.

When I was at work, up in the Roseland men’s room, I just
couldn’t keep still. My shine rag popped with the rhythm of
those great bands rocking the ballroom. White customers on the
shine stand, especially, would laugh to see my feet suddenly
break loose on their own and cut a few steps. Whites are correct
in thinking that black people are natural dancers. Even little kids
are—except for those Negroes today who are so “‘integrated,”’
as I had been, that their instincts are inhibited. You know those
‘‘dancing jibagoo’’ toys that you wind up? Well, I was like a
live one—music just wound me up.

By the next dance for the Boston black folk—I remember that
Lionel Hampton was coming in to play—I had given my notice
to the Roseland’s manager.

When I told Ella why I had quit, she laughed aloud: I told her
I couldn’t find time to shine shoes and dance, too. She was glad,
because she had never liked the idea of my working at that no-
prestige job. When I told Shorty, he said he’d known I’d soon
outgrow it anyway.

Shorty could dance all night himself but, for his own reasons,
he never cared about going to the big dances. He loved just the
music-making end of it. He practiced his saxophone and listened
to records. It astonished me that Shorty didn’t care to go and

LAURA 61

hear the big bands play. He had his alto sax idol, Johnny Hodges,
with Duke Ellington’s band, but he said he thought too many
young musicians were only carbon-copying the big-band names
on the same instrument. Anyway, Shorty was really serious about
nothing except his music, and about working for the day when
he could start his own little group to gig around Boston.

The moming after I quit Roseland, I was down at the men’s
clothing store bright and early. The salesman checked and found
that I’d missed only one weekly payment: I had ‘‘A-1”’ credit.
I told him I’d just quit my job, but he said that didn’t make any
difference; I could miss paying them for a couple of weeks if I
had to; he knew I’d get straight.

This time, I studied carefully everything in my size on the
racks. And finally I picked out my second zoot. It was a shark-
skin gray, with a big, long coat, and pants ballooning out at the
knees and then tapering down to cuffs so narrow that I had to
take off my shoes to get them on and off. With the salesman
urging me on, I got another shirt, and a hat, and new shoes—
the kind that were just coming into hipster style; dark orange
colored, with paper-thin soles and knob style toes. It all added
up to seventy or eighty dollars.

It was such a red-letter day that I even went and got my first
barbershop conk. This time it didn’t hurt so much, just as Shorty
had predicted.

That night, I tumed myself to hit Roseland as the thick of the
crowd was coming in. In the thronging lobby, I saw some of the
real Roxbury hipsters eyeing my zoot, and some fine women
were giving me that look. I sauntered up to the men’s room for
a short drink from the pint in my inside coat-pocket. My replace-
ment was there—a scared, narrow-faced, hungry-looking little
brown-skinned fellow just in town from Kansas City. And when
he recognized me, he couldn’t keep down his admiration and
wonder. I told him to ‘‘keep cool,’’ that he’d soon catch on to
the happenings. Everything felt right when I went into the ball--
room.

Hamp’s band was working, and that big, waxed floor was
packed with people lindy-hopping like crazy. I grabbed some
girl I’d never seen, and the next thing I knew we were out there
lindying away and grinning at each other. It couldn’t have been
finer.

62 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I’d been lindying previously only in cramped little apartment
living rooms, and now I had room to maneuver. Once I really
got myself warmed and loosened up, I was snatching partners
from among the hundreds of unattached, free-lancing girls along
the sidelines—almost every one of them could really dance—
and I just about went wild! Hamp’s band wailing. I was whirling
girls so fast their skirts were snapping. Black girls, brownskins,
high yellows, even a couple of the white girls there. Boosting
them over my hips, my shoulders, into the air. Though I wasn’t
quite sixteen then, I was tall and rawboned and looked like
twenty-one; I was also pretty strong for my age. Circling, tap-
dancing, I was undemeath them when they landed—doing the
‘flapping eagle,’’ ‘‘the kangaroo’’ and the ‘‘split.”’

After that, I never missed a Roseland lindy-hop as long as I
stayed in Boston.

The greatest lindy-dancing partner I had, everything consid-
ered, was a girl named Laura. I met her at my next job. When
I quit shoeshining, Ella was so happy that she went around ask-
ing about a job for me—one she would approve. Just two blocks
from her house, the Townsend Drug Store was about to replace
its soda fountain clerk, a fellow who was leaving to go off to
college.

When Ella told me, I didn’t like it. She knew I couldn’t stand
those Hill characters. But speaking my mind right then would
have made Ella mad. I didn’t want that to happen, so I put on
the white jacket and started serving up sodas, sundaes, splits,
shakes and all the rest of that fountain stuff to those fancy-acting
Negroes.

Every evening when I got off at eight and came home, Ella
would keep saying, “‘l hope you’ll meet some of these nice
young people your age here in Roxbury.’’ But those penny-ante
Squares who came in there putting on their millionaires’ airs,
the young ones and the old ones both, only annoyed me. People
like the sleep-in maid for Beacon Hill white folks who used to
come in with her ‘‘ooh, my deah’’ manners and order com plas-
ters in the Jew’s drugstore for black folks. Or the hospital
cafeteria-line serving woman sitting there on her day off with a
cat fur around her neck, telling the proprietor she was a ‘‘dieti-
tian’’—both of them knowing she was lying. Even the young

LAURA 63

ones, my age, whom Ella was always talking about. The soda
fountain was one of their hang-outs. They soon had me ready
to quit, with their accents so phonied up that if you just heard
them and didn’t see them, you wouldn’t even know they were
Negroes. I couldn’t wait for eight o’clock to get home to eat out
of those soul-food pots of Ella’s, then get dressed in my zoot
and head for some of my friends’ places in town, to lindy-hop
and get high, or something, for relief from those Hill clowns.

Before long, I didn’t see how I was going to be able to stick
it out there eight hours a day; and I nearly didn’t. I remember
one night, I nearly quit because I had hit the numbers for ten
cents—the first time I had ever hit—on one of the sideline bets
that I’d made in the drugstore. (Yes, there were several runners
on the Hill; even dignified Negroes played the numbers.) I won
sixty dollars, and Shorty and I had a ball with it. I wished I had
hit for the daily dollar that I played with my town man, paying
him by the week. I would surely have quit the drugstore. I could
have bought a car.

Anyway, Laura lived in a house that was catercorner across
the street from the drugstore. After a while, as soon as I saw her
coming in, I’d start making up a banana split. She was a real
bug for them, and she came in late every afternoon—after school.
I imagine I’d been shoving that ice cream dish under her nose
for five or six weeks before somehow it began to sink in that
she wasn’t like the rest. She was certainly the only Hill girl that
came in there and acted in any way friendly and natural.

She always had some book with her, and poring over it, she
would make a thirty-minute job of that daily dish of banana split.
I began to notice the books she read. They were pretty heavy
school stuff—Latin, algebra, things like that. Watching her made
me reflect that I hadn’t read even a newspaper since leaving
Mason.

Laura. 1 heard her name called by a few of the others who
came in when she was there. But I could see they didn’t know
her too well; they said ‘‘hello’’—that was about the extent of it.
She kept to herself, and she never said more than ‘‘Thank you”’
to me. Nice voice. Soft. Quiet. Never another word. But no airs
like the others, no black Bostonese. She was just herself.

I liked that. Before too long, I struck up a conversation. Just
what subject I got off on I don’t remember, but she readily

64 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

opened up and began talking, and she was very friendly. I found
out that she was a high school junior, an honor student. Her
parents had split up when she was a baby, and she had been
raised by her grandmother, an old lady on a pension, who was
very strict and old-fashioned and religious. Laura had just one
close friend, a girl who lived over in Cambridge, whom she had
gone to school with. They talked on the telephone every day.
Her grandmother scarcely ever let her go to the movies, let alone
on dates.

But Laura really liked school. She said she wanted to go on
to college. She was keen for algebra, and she planned to major
in science. Laura never would have dreamed that she was a year
older than I was. I gauged that indirectly. She looked up to me
as though she felt I had a world of experience more than she
did—which really was the truth. But sometimes, when she had
gone, I felt let down, thinking how I had turned away from the
books I used to like when I was back in Michigan.

I got to the point where I looked forward to her coming in
every day after school. I stopped letting her pay, and gave her
extra ice cream. And she wasn’t hiding the fact that she liked
me.

It wasn’t long before she had stopped reading her books when
she came in, and would just sit and eat and talk with me. And
soon she began trying to get me to talk about myself. I was
immediately sorry when I dropped that I had once thought about
becoming a lawyer. She didn’t want to let me rest about that.
**Malcolm, there’s no reason you can’t pick up right where you
are and become a lawyer.’’ She had the idea that my sister Ella
would help me as much as she could. And if Ella had ever
thought that she could help any member of the Little family put
up any kind of professional shingle—as a teacher, a foot-doctor,
anything—why, you would have had to tie her down to keep her
from taking in washing.

I never mentioned Laura to Shorty. I just knew she never
would have understood him, or that crowd. And they wouldn’t
have understood her. She had never been touched, I’m certain
she hadn’t, or even had a drink, and she wouldn’t even have
known what a reefer was.

It was a great surprise to me when one afternoon Laura hap-
pened to let drop that she ‘‘just loved’’ lindy-hopping. I asked

LAURA 65

her how had she been able to go out dancing. She said she’d
been introduced to lindy-hopping at a party given by the parents
of some Negro friend just accepted by Harvard.

It was just about time to start closing down the soda fountain,
and I said that Count Basie was playing the Roseland that week-
end, and would she like to go?

Laura’s eyes got wide. I thought I’d have to catch her, she
was so excited. She said she’d never been there, she’d heard so
much about it, she’d imagined what it was like, she’d just give
anything—but her grandma would have a fit.

So I said maybe some other time.

But the afternoon before the dance, Laura came in full of
excitement. She whispered that she’d never lied to her grandma
before, but she had told her she had to attend some school func-
tion that evening. If I’d get her home early, she’d meet me—if
I’d still take her.

I told her we’d have to go by for me to change clothes at the
house. She hesitated, but said okay. Before we left, I telephoned
Ella to say I'd be bringing a girl by on the way to the dance.
Though I’d never before done anything like it, Ella covered up
her surprise.

I laughed to myself a long time afterward about how Ella’s
mouth flew open when we showed up at the front door—me and
a well-bred Hill girl. Laura, when I introduced her, was warm
and sincere. And Ella, you would have thought she was closing
in on her third husband.

While they sat and talked downstairs, I dressed upstairs in my
room. I remember changing my mind about the wild sharkskin
gray zoot I had planned to wear, and deciding instead to put on
the first one I’d gotten, the blue zoot. I knew I should wear the
most conservative thing I had.

They were like old friends when I came back down. Ella had
even made tea. Ella’s hawk-eye just about raked my zoot right
off my back. But I’m sure she was grateful that I’d at least put
on the blue one. Knowing Ella, I knew that she had already
extracted Laura’s entire life story—and all but had the wedding
bells around my neck. I grinned all the way to the Roseland in
the taxi, because I had showed Ella I could hang out with Hill
girls if I wanted to.

Laura’s eyes were so big. She said almost none of her ac-

66 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

quaintances knew her grandmother, who never went anywhere
but to church, so there wasn’t much danger of it getting back to
her. The only person she had told was her girl friend, who had
shared her excitement.

Then, suddenly, we were in the Roseland’s jostling lobby.
And I was getting waves and smiles and greetings. They shouted
‘‘My man!’’ and “‘Hey, Red!’’ and I answered ‘*Daddy-o.’’

She and I never before had danced together, but that certainly
was no problem. Any two people who can lindy at all can lindy
together. We just started out there on the floor among a lot of
other couples.

It was maybe halfway in the number before I became aware
of how she danced.

If you’ve ever lindy-hopped, you’ll know what I’m talking
about. With most girls, you kind of work opposite them, cir-
cling, side-stepping, leading. Whichever arm you lead with 1s
half-bent out there, your hands are giving that little pull, that
little push, touching her waist, her shoulders, her arms. She’s
in, out, turning, whirling, wherever you guide her. With poor
partners, you feel their weight. They’re slow and heavy. But
with really good partners, all you need is just the push-pull sug-
gestion. They guide nearly effortlessly, even off the floor and
into the air, and your little solo maneuver is done on the floor
before they land, when they join you, whirling, right in step.

I’d danced with plenty of good partners. But what I became
suddenly aware of with Laura was that I’d never before felt so
little weight! I’d nearly just think a maneuver, and she’d re-
spond.

Anyway, as she danced up, down, under my am, flinging
out, while I felt her out and examined her style, I glimpsed her
footwork. I can close my eyes right now and see it, like some
blurring ballet—beautiful! And her lightness, like a shadow! My
perfect partner, if somebody had asked me, would have been
one who handled as lightly as Laura and who would have had
the strength to last through a long, tough showtime. But I knew
that Laura wouldn’t begin to be that strong.

In Harlem, years later, a friend of mine called ‘‘Sammy The
Pimp’’ taught me something I wish I had known then to look
for in Laura’s face. It was what Sammy declared was his infal-

LAURA 67

lible clue for determining the ‘‘unconscious, true personality’’
of women. Considering all the women he had picked out of
crowds and turned into prostitutes, Sammy qualified as an ex-
pert. Anyway, he swore that if a woman, any woman, gets really
carried away while dancing, what she truly is—at least poten-
tially—will surface and show on her face.

I’m not suggesting that a lady-of-easy-virtue look danced to
the surface in Laura—although life did deal her cruel blows,
starting with her meeting me. All I am saying is that it may be
that if I had been equipped with Sammy’s ability, I might have
spotted in Laura then some of the subsurface potential, destined
to become real, that would have shocked her grandma.

A third of the way or so through the evening the main vocal-
izing and instrumental stylings would come—and then show-
time, when only the greatest lindy-hoppers would stay on the
floor, to try and eliminate each other. All the other dancers
would form a big ‘‘U’’ with the band at the open end.

The girls who intended to compete would slip over to the
sidelines and change from high heels into low white sneakers.
In competition, they never could survive in heels. And always
among them were four or five unattached girls who would run
around trying to hook up with some guy they knew could really
lindy.

Now Count Basie turned on the showtime blast, and the other
dancers moved off the floor, shifting for good watching posi-
tions, and began their hollering for their favorites. ‘‘All nght
now, Red!’’ they shouted to me, “‘Go get ’em, Red.’’ And then
a free-lancing lindy-girl I’d danced with before, Mamie Bevels,
a waitress and a wild dancer, ran up to me, with Laura standing
right there. I wasn’t sure what to do. But Laura started backing
away toward the crowd, still looking at me. :

The Count’s band was wailing. I grabbed Mamie and we
started to work. She was a big, rough, strong gal, and she lindied
like a bucking horse. I remember the very night that she became
known as one of the showtime favorites there at the Roseland.
A band was screaming when she kicked off her shoes and got
barefooted, and shouted, and shook herself as if she were in
some African jungle frenzy, and then she let loose with some
dancing, shouting with every step, until the guy that was out
there with her nearly had to fight to control her. The crowd loved

68 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

any way-out lindying style that made a colorful show like that.
It was how Mamie had become known.

Anyway, I started driving her like a horse, the way she liked.
When we came off the floor after the first number, we both were
wringing wet with sweat, and people were shouting and pound-
ing our backs.

I remember leaving early with Laura, to get her home in time.
She was very quiet. And she didn’t have much to say for the
next week or so when she came into the drugstore. Even then,
I had learned enough about women to know not to pressure them
when they’re thinking something out; they’ll tell you when
they’re ready.

Every time I saw Ella, even brushing my teeth in the morning,
she turned on the third degree. When was I seeing Laura again?
Was I going to bring her by again? ‘‘What a nice girl she is!”’
Ella had picked her out for me.

But in that kind of way, I thought hardly anything about the
girl. When it came to personal matters, my mind was strictly on
getting ‘‘sharp’’ in my zoot as soon as I left work, and racing
downtown to hang out with Shorty and the other guys—and with
the girls they knew—a million miles away from the stuck-up
Hill.

I wasn’t even thinking about Laura when she came up to me
in the drugstore and asked me to take her to the next Negro
dance at the Roseland. Duke Ellington was going to play, and
she was beside herself with excitement. I had no way to know
what was going to happen.

She asked me to pick her up at her house this time. I didn’t
want any contact with the old grandma she had described, but I
went. Grandma answered the door—an old-fashioned, wrinkled
black woman, with fuzzy gray hair. She just opened the door
enough for me to get in, not even saying as much as ‘‘Come in,
dog.’’ I’ve faced armed detectives and gangsters less hostile
than she was.

I remember the musty living room, full of those old Christ
pictures, prayers woven into tapestries, statuettes of the cruci-
fixion, other religious objects on the mantel, shelves, table tops,
walls, everywhere.

Since the old lady wasn’t speaking to me, I didn’t speak to
her, either. I completely sympathize with her now, of course.

LAURA 69

What could she have thought of me in my zoot and conk and
orange shoes? She’d have done us all a favor if she had run
screaming for the police. If something looking as I did then ever
came knocking at my door today, asking to see one of my four
daughters, I know I would explode.

When Laura rushed into the room, jerking on her coat, I could
see that she was upset and angry and embarrassed. And in the
taxi, she started crying. She had hated herself for lying before;
she had decided to tell the truth about where she was going, and
there had been a screaming battle with grandma. Laura had
told the old lady that she was going to start going out when
and where she wanted to, or she would quit school and get a
job and move out on her own—and her grandma had pitched
a fit. Laura just walked out.

When we got to the Roseland, we danced the early part of the
evening with each other and with different partners. And finally
the Duke kicked off showtime.

I knew, and Laura knew, that she couldn’t match the veteran
showtime girls, but she told me that she wanted to compete.
And the next thing I knew, she was among those girls over on
the sidelines changing into sneakers. I shook my head when a
couple of the free-lancing girls ran up to me.

As always, the crowd clapped and shouted in time with the
blasting band. “*Go, Red, go!’’ Partly it was my reputation, and
partly Laura’s ballet style of dancing that helped to turn the
spotlight—and the crowd’s attention—to us. They never had seen
the feather-lightness that she gave to lindying, a completely fresh
style—and they were connoisseurs of styles. I turned up the
steam, Laura’s feet were flying; I had her in the air, down,
sideways, around; backwards, up again, down, whirling. . . .

The spotlight was working mostly just us. I caught glimpses
of the four or five other couples, the girls jungle-strong, animal-
like, bucking and charging. But little Laura inspired me to drive
to new heights. Her hair was all over her face, it was running
sweat, and I couldn’t believe her strength. The crowd was shout-
ing and stomping. A new favorite was being discovered; there
was a wall of noise around us. I felt her weakening, she was
lindying like a fighter out on her feet, and we stumbled off to
the sidelines. The band was still blasting. I had to half-carry her;
she was gasping for air. Some of the men in the band applauded.

70 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

And even Duke Ellington half raised up from his piano stool
and bowed.

If a showtime crowd liked your performance, when you came
off you were mobbed, mauled, grasped, and pummeled like the
team that’s just taken the series. One bunch of the crowd
swarmed Laura; they had her clear up off her feet. And I was
being pounded on the back. . . when I caught this fine blonde’s
eyes. .. . This one I’d never seen among the white girls who
came to the Roseland black dances. She was eyeing me levelly.

Now at that time, in Roxbury, in any black ghetto in America,
to have a white woman who wasn’t a known, common whore
was—for the average black man, at least—a status symbol of the
first order. And this one, standing there, eyeing me, was almost
too fine to believe. Shoulder-length hair, well built, and her
clothes had cost somebody plenty.

It’s shameful to admit, but I had just about forgotten Laura
when she got loose from the mob and mished up, big-eyed—and
stopped. I guess she saw what there was to see in that girl’s
face—and mine—as we moved out to dance.

I’m going to call her Sophia.

She didn’t dance well, at least not by Negro standards. But
who cared? I could feel the staring eyes of other couples around
us. We talked. I told her she was a good dancer, and asked her
where she’d learned. I was trying to find out why she was there.
Most white women came to the black dances for reasons I knew,
but you seldom saw her kind around there.

She had vague answers for everything. But in the space of
that dance, we agreed that I would get Laura home early and
rush back in a taxicab. And then she asked if I’d like to go for
a drive later. I felt very lucky.

Laura was home and I was back at the Roseland in an hour
flat. Sophia was waiting outside.

About five blocks down, she had a low convertible. She knew
where she was going. Beyond Boston, she pulled off into a side
road, and then off that into a deserted lane. And turned off
everything but the radio.

For the next several months, Sophia would pick me up down-
town, and I’d take her to dances, and to the bars around Rox-

LAURA 71

bury. We drove all over. Sometimes it would be nearly daylight
when she let me out in front of Ella’s.

I paraded her. The Negro men loved her. And she just seemed
to love all Negroes. Two or three nights a week, we would go
out together. Sophia admitted that she also had dates with white
fellows, ‘‘just for the looks of things,’’ she said. She swore that
a white man couldn’t interest her.

I wondered for a long time, but I never did find out why she
approached me so boldly that very first night. I always thought
it was because of some earlier experience with another Negro,
but I never asked, and she never said. Never ask a woman about
other men. Either she’! tell you a lie, and you still won’t know,
or if she tells you the truth, you might not have wanted to hear
it in the first place.

Anyway, she seemed entranced with me. I began to see less
of Shorty. When I did see him and the gang, he would gibe,
‘Man, I had to comb the burrs out of my homeboy’s head, and
now he’s got a Beacon Hill chick.’’ But truly, because it was
known that Shorty had ‘‘schooled’’ me, my having Sophia gave
Shorty status. When I introduced her to him, she hugged him
like a sister, and it just about finished Shorty off. His best had
been white prostitutes and a few of those poor specimens that
worked around in the mills and had ‘‘discovered’’ Negroes.

It was when I began to be seen around town with Sophia that
I really began to mature into some real status in black downtown
Roxbury. Up to then I had been just another among all of the
conked and zooted youngsters. But now, with the best-looking
white woman who ever walked in those bars and clubs, and with
her giving me the money I spent, too, even the big, important
black hustlers and ‘*smart boys’’—the club managers, name
gamblers, numbers bankers, and others—were clapping me on
the back, setting us up to drinks at special tables, and calling
me ‘‘Red.’’ Of course I knew their reason like I knew my own
name: they wanted to steal my fine white woman away from
me.

In the ghetto, as in suburbia, it’s the same status struggle to
stand out in some envied way from the rest. At sixteen, I didn’t
have the money to buy a Cadillac, but she had her own fine
‘‘rubber,’’ as we called a car in those days. And I had her, which
was even better.

72 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X
* kK

Laura never again came to the drugstore as long as I continued
to work there. The next time I saw her, she was a wreck of a
woman, notorious around black Roxbury, in and out of jail. She
had finished high school, but by then she was already going the
wrong way. Defying her grandmother, she had started going out
late and drinking liquor. This led to dope, and that to selling
herself to men. Learning to hate the men who bought her, she
also became a Lesbian. One of the shames I have carried for
years is that I blame myself for all of this. To have treated her
as I did for a white woman made the blow doubly heavy. The
only excuse I can offer is that like so many of my black brothers
today, I was just deaf, dumb, and blind.

In any case, it wasn’t long after I met Sophia that Ella found
out about it, and watching from the windows one early morning,
saw me getting out of Sophia’s car. Not surprisingly, Ella began
treating me like a viper.

About then, Shorty’s cousin finally moved in with the woman
he was so crazy about, and Sophia financed me to take over half
of the apartment with Shorty—and I quit the drugstore and soon
found a new job.

I became a busboy at the Parker House in Boston. I wore a
starched white jacket out in the dining room, where the waiters
would put the customers’ dirty plates and silver on big aluminum
trays which I would take back to the kitchen’s dishwashers.

A few weeks later, one Sunday morning, I ran in to work
expecting to get fired, I was so late. But the whole kitchen crew
was too excited and upset to notice: Japanese planes had just
bombed a place called Pearl Harbor.

CHAPTER FIVE
HARLEMITE

‘*Get’cha goood haaaaam an’ cheeeeese . . . sandwiches! Cof-
fee! Candy! Cake! Ice Cream!’’ Rocking along the tracks every
other day for four hours between Boston and New York in the
coach aisles of the New York, New Haven & Hartford’s ‘‘ Yan-
kee Clipper. ”’

Old Man Rountree, an elderly Pullman porter and a friend of
Ella’s, had recommended the railroad job for me. He had told
her the war was snatching away railroad men so fast that if I
could pass for twenty-one, he could get me on.

Ella wanted to get me out of Boston and away from Sophia.
She would have loved nothing better than to have seen me like
one of those Negroes who were already thronging Roxbury in
the Army’s khaki and thick shoes—home on leave from boot
camp. But my age of sixteen stopped that.

I went along with the railroad job for my own reasons. For a
long time I’d wanted to visit New York City. Since I had been
in Roxbury, I had heard a lot about “‘the Big Apple,’’ as it was
called by the well-traveled musicians, merchant mariners, sales-
men, chauffeurs for white families, and various kinds of hustlers
I ran into. Even as far back as Lansing, I had been hearing about
how fabulous New York was, and especially Harlem. In fact,
my father had described Harlem with pnde, and showed us pic-
tures of the huge parades by the Harlem followers of Marcus
Garvey. And every time Joe Louis won a fight against a white
opponent, big front-page pictures in the Negro newspapers such
as the Chicago Defender, the Pittsburgh Courier and the Afro-
American showed a sea of Harlem Negroes cheering and waving

73

74. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

and the Brown Bomber waving back at them from the balcony
of Harlem’s Theresa Hotel. Everything I’d ever heard about
New York City was exciting—things like Broadway’s bright
lights and the Savoy Ballroom and Apollo Theater in Harlem,
where great bands played and famous songs and dance steps and
Negro stars originated.

But you couldn’t just pick up and go to visit New York from
Lansing, or Boston, or anywhere else—not without money. So
I’d never really given too much thought co getting to New York
until the free way to travel there came in the form of Ella’s talk
with old man Rountree, who was a member of Ella’s church.

What Ella didn’t know, of course, was that I would continue
to see Sophia. Sophia could get away only a few nights a week.
She said, when I told her about the train job, that she’d get away
every night I got back into Boston, and this would mean every
other night, if I got the rin I wanted. Sophia didn’t want me to
leave at all, but she believed I was draft age already, and thought
the train job would keep me out of the Army.

Shorty thought it would be a great chance for me. He was
worried sick himself about the draft call that he knew was soon
to come. Like hundreds of the black ghetto’s young men, he
was taking some stuff that, it was said, would make your heart
sound defective to the draft board’s doctors.

Shorty felt about the war the same way I and most ghetto
Negroes did: ‘“Whitey owns everything. He wants us to go and
bleed for him? Let him fight.”’

Anyway, at the railroad personnel hiring office down on Do-
ver Street, a tired-acting old white clerk got down to the crucial
point, when I came to sign up. ‘‘Age, Little?’’ When I told him
‘*Twenty-one,’’ he never lifted his eyes from his pencil. I knew
I had the job.

I was promised the first available Boston-to-New York fourth-
cook job. But for a while, I worked there in the Dover Street
Yard, helping to load food requisitions onto the trains. Fourth
cook, I knew, was just a glorified name for dishwasher, but it
wouldn’t be my first time, and just as long as I traveled where I
wanted, it didn’t make any difference to me. Temporarily
though, they put me on ‘‘The Colonial’’ that ran to Washington,
D.C

The kitchen crew, headed by a West Indian chef named Duke

HARLEMITE 7)

Vaughn, worked with almost unbelievable efficiency in the
cramped quarters. Against the sound of the train clacking along,
the waiters were jabbering the customers’ orders, the cooks op-
erated like machines, and five hundred miles of dirty pots and
dishes and silverware rattled back to me. Then, on the overnight
layover, I naturally went sightseeing in downtown Washington.
I was astounded to find in the nation’s capital, just a few blocks
from Capitol Hill, thousands of Negroes living worse than any
I’d ever seen in the poorest sections of Roxbury; in dirt-floor
shacks along unspeakably filthy lanes with names like Pig Alley
and Goat Alley. I had seen a lot, but never such a dense con-
centration of stumblebums, pushers, hookers, public crap-
shooters, even little kids running around at midnight begging
for pennies, half-naked and barefooted. Some of the railroad
cooks and waiters had told me to be very careful, because mug-
gings, knifings and robberies went on every night among these
Negroes . . . just a few blocks from the White House.

But I saw other Negroes better off; they lived in blocks of
rundown red brick houses. The old ‘‘Colonial’’ railroaders had
told me about Washington having a lot of ‘‘middle-class’’ Ne-
groes with Howard University degrees, who were working as
laborers, janitors, porters, guards, taxi-drivers, and the like. For
the Negro in Washington, mail-carrying was a prestige job.

After a few of the Washington runs, I snatched the chance
when one day personnel said I could temporarily replace a sand-
wich man on the ‘‘Yankee Clipper’? to New York. I was into
my zoot suit before the first passenger got off.

The cooks took me up to Harlem in a cab. White New York
passed by like a movie set, then abruptly, when we left Central
Park at the upper end, at 110th Street, the people’s complexion
began to change.

Busy Seventh Avenue ran along in front of a place called
Small’s Paradise. The crew had told me before we left Boston
that it was their favorite night spot in Harlem, and not to miss
it. No Negro place of business had ever impressed me so much.
Around the big, luxurious-looking, circular bar were thirty or
forty Negroes, mostly men, drinking and talking.

I was hit first, I think, by their conservative clothes and man-
ners. Wherever I’d seen as many as ten Boston Negroes—let
alone Lansing Negroes—drinking, there had been a big noise.

76 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

But with all of these Harlemites drinking and talking, there was
just a low murmur of sound. Customers came and went. The
bartenders knew what most of them drank and automatically
fixed it. A bottle was set on the bar before some.

Every Negro I’d ever known had made a point of flashing
whatever money he had. But these Harlem Negroes quietly laid
a bill on the bar. They drank. They nonchalantly nodded to the
bartender to pour a drink for some friend, while the bartenders,
smooth as any of the customers, kept making change from the
money on the bar.

Their manners seemed natural; they were not putting on any
airs. I was awed. Within the first five minutes in Small’s, I had
left Boston and Roxbury forever.

I didn’t yet know that these weren’t what you might call ev-
eryday or average Harlem Negroes. Later on, even later that
night, I would find out that Harlem contained hundreds of thou-
sands of my people who were just as loud and gaudy as Negroes
anywhere else. But these were the cream of the older, more
mature operators in Harlem. The day’s ‘‘numbers’’ business
was done. The night’s gambling and other forms of hustling
hadn’t yet begun. The usual night-life crowd, who worked on
regular jobs all day, were at home eating their dinners. The
hustlers at this time were in the daily six o’clock congregation,
having their favorite bars all over Harlem largely to themselves.

From Small’s, I taxied over to the Apollo Theater. (I remem-
ber so well that Jay McShann’s band was playing, because his
vocalist was later my close friend, Walter Brown, the one who
used to sing ‘‘Hooty Hooty Blues.’’) From there, on the other
side of 125th Street, at Seventh Avenue, I saw the big, tall, gray
Theresa Hotel. It was the finest in New York City where Ne-
groes could then stay, years before the downtown hotels would
accept the black man. (The Theresa is now best known as the
place where Fidel Castro went during his U.N. visit, and
achieved a psychological coup over the U.S. State Department
when it confined him to Manhattan, never dreaming that he’d
stay uptown in Harlem and make such an impression among the
Negroes.)

The Braddock Hotel was just up 126th Street, near the Apol-
lo’s backstage entrance. I knew its bar was famous as a Negro
celebrity hang-out. I walked in and saw, along that jam-packed

HARLEMITE 77

bar, such famous stars as Dizzy Gillespie, Billy Eckstine, Billie
Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, and Dinah Washington.

As Dinah Washington was leaving with some friends, I over-
heard someone say she was on her way to the Savoy Ballroom
where Lionel Hampton was appearing that night—she was then
Hamp’s vocalist. The ballroom made the Roseland in Boston
look small and shabby by comparison. And the lindy-hopping
there matched the size and elegance of the place. Hampton’s
hard-driving outfit kept a red-hot pace with his greats such as
Armett Cobb, Illinois Jacquet, Dexter Gordon, Alvin Hayse, Joe
Newman, and George Jenkins. I went a couple of rounds on the
floor with girls from the sidelines.

Probably a third of the sideline booths were filled with white
people, mostly just watching the Negroes dance; but some of
them danced together, and, as in Boston, a few white women
were with Negroes. The people kept shouting for Hamp’s
‘‘Flyin’ Home,”’ and finally he did it. (I could believe the story
I’d heard in Boston about this number—that once in the Apollo,
Hamp’s ‘‘Flyin’ Home’’ had made some reefer-smoking Negro
in the second balcony believe he could fly, so he tried—and
jumped—and broke his leg, an event later immortalized in song
when Earl Hines wrote a hit tune called ‘“‘Second Balcony
Jump.’’) I had never seen such fever-heat dancing. After a cou-
ple of slow numbers cooled the place off, they brought on Dinah
Washington. When she did her ‘‘Salty Papa Blues,’’ those peo-
ple just about tore the Savoy roof off. (Poor Dinah’s funeral was
held not long ago in Chicago. I read that over twenty thousand
people viewed her body, and I should have been there myself.
Poor Dinah! We became great friends, back in those days.)

But this night of my first visit was Kitchen Mechanics’ Night
at the Savoy, the traditional Thursday night off for domestics.
I’d say there were twice as many women as men in there, not
only kitchen workers and maids, but also war wives and defense-
worker women, lonely and looking. Out in the street, when I
left the ballroom, I heard a prostitute cursing bitterly that the
professionals couldn’t do any business because of the amateurs.

Up and down along and between Lenox and Seventh and
Eighth avenues, Harlem was like some technicolor bazaar. Hun-
dreds of Negro soldiers and sailors, gawking and young like me,
passed by. Harlem by now was officially off limits to white

78 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

servicemen. There had already been some muggings and rob-
beries, and several white servicemen had been found murdered.
The police were also trying to discourage white civilians from
coming uptown, but those who wanted to still did. Every man
without a woman on his arm was being ‘“‘worked’’ by the pros-
titutes. ‘‘Baby, wanna have some fun?’’ The pimps would sidle
up close, stage-whispering, ‘‘All kinds of women, Jack—want
a white woman?’’ And the hustlers were merchandising: *‘Hun-
dred-dollar ring, man, diamond; ninety-dollar watch, too—look
at ’em. Take ’em both for twenty-five.”’

In another two years, I could have given them all lessons. But
that night, I was mesmerized. This world was where I belonged.
On that night I had started on my way to becoming a Harlemite.
I was going to become one of the most depraved parasitical
hustlers among New York’s eight million people—four million
of whom work, and the other four million of whom live off
them.

I couldn’t quite believe all that I’d heard and seen that night
as I lugged my shoulder-strap sandwich box and that heavy five-
gallon aluminum coffee pot up and down the aisles of the ‘*Yan-
kee Clipper’’ back to Boston. I wished that Ella and I had been
on better terms so that I could try to describe to her how I felt.
But I did talk to Shorty, urging him to at least go to see the
Big Apple music world. Sophia listened to me, too. She told
me that I’d never be satisfied anywhere but New York. She
was so right. In one night, New York—Harlem—had just
about narcotized me.

That sandwich man I’d replaced had little chance of getting
his job back. I went bellowing up and down those train aisles. I
sold sandwiches, coffee, candy, cake, and ice cream as fast as
the railroad’s commissary department could supply them. It
didn’t take me a week to learn that all you had to do was give
white people a show and they’d buy anything you offered them.
It was like popping your shoeshine rag. The dining car waiters
and Pullman porters knew it too, and they faked their Uncle
Tomming to get bigger tips. We were in that world of Negroes
who are both servants and psychologists, aware that white peo-
ple are so obsessed with their own importance that they will pay
liberally, even dearly, for the impression of being catered to and
entertained.

HARLEMITE 79

Every layover night in Harlem, I ran and explored new places.
I first got a room at the Harlem YMCA, because it was less than
a block from Small’s Paradise. Then, I got a cheaper room at
Mrs. Fisher’s rooming house which was close to the YMCA.
Most of the railroad men stayed at Mrs. Fisher’s. I combed not
only the bright-light areas, but Harlem’s residential areas from
best to worst, from Sugar Hill up near the Polo Grounds, where
many famous celebrities lived, down to the slum blocks of old
rat-trap apartment houses, just crawling with everything you
could mention that was illegal and immoral. Dirt, garbage cans
overflowing or kicked over; drunks, dope addicts, beggars.
Sleazy bars, store-front churches with gospels being shouted
inside, ‘‘bargain’’ stores, hockshops, undertaking parlors.
Greasy ‘‘home-cooking’’ restaurants, beauty shops smoky in-
side from Negro women’s hair getting fried, barbershops ad-
vertising conk experts. Cadillacs, secondhand and new,
conspicuous among the cars on the streets.

All of it was Lansing’s West Side or Roxbury’s South End
magnified a thousand times. Little basement dance halls with
‘‘For Rent’’ signs on them. People offering you little cards ad-
vertising ‘‘rent-raising parties.’’ I went to one of these—thirty
or forty Negroes sweating, eating, drinking, dancing, and gam-
bling in a jammed, beat-up apartment, the record player going
full blast, the fried chicken or chitlins with potato salad and
collard greens for a dollar a plate, and cans of beer or shots of
liquor for fifty cents. Negro and white canvassers sidled up
alongside you, talking fast as they tried to get you to buy a copy
of the Daily Worker: ‘‘This paper’s trying to keep your rent
controlled . . . Make that greedy landlord kill them rats in your
apartment . . . This paper represents the only political party
that ever ran a black man for the Vice Presidency of the United
States . . . Just want you to read, won’t take but a little of your
time . . . Who do you think fought the hardest to help free those
Scottsboro boys?’’ Things I overheard among Negroes when the
salesmen were around let me know that the paper somehow was
tied in with the Russians, but to my sterile mind in those early
days, it didn’t mean much; the radio broadcasts and the news-
papers were then full of our-ally-Russia, a strong, muscular peo-
ple, peasants, with their backs to the wall helping America to
fight Hitler and Mussolini.

80 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

But New York was heaven to me. And Harlem was Seventh
Heaven! I hung around in Small’s and the Braddock bar so much
that the bartenders began to pour a shot of bourbon, my favorite
brand of it, when they saw me walk in the door. And the steady
customers in both places, the hustlers in Small’s and the enter-
tainers in the Braddock, began to call me ‘‘Red,’’ a natural
enough nickname in view of my bright red conk. I now had my
conk done in Boston at the shop of Abbott and Fogey; it was
the best conk shop on the East Coast, according to the musical
greats who had recommended it to me.

My friends now included musicians like Duke Ellington’s
great drummer, Sonny Greer, and that great personality with the
violin, Ray Nance. He’s the one who used to sing in that wild
‘*scat’’ style: ‘‘Blip-blip-de-blop-de-blam-blam—’’ And people
like Cootie Williams, and Eddie ‘‘Cleanhead’’ Vinson, who’d
kid me about his conk—he had nothing up there but skin. He
was hitting the heights then with his song, ‘“‘Hey, Pretty Mama,
Chunk Me In Your Big Brass Bed.’’ I also knew Sy Oliver; he
was married to a red-complexioned girl, and they lived up on
Sugar Hill; Sy did a lot of arranging for Tommy Dorsey in those
days. His most famous tune, I believe, was ‘‘Yes, Indeed!’’

The regular ‘“ Yankee Clipper’’ sandwich man, when he came
back, was put on another train. He complained about seniority,
but my sales record made them placate him some other way.
The waiters and cooks had begun to call me ‘‘Sandwich Red.”’

By that time, they had a laughing bet going that I wasn’t going
to last, sales or not, because I had so rapidly become such an
uncouth, wild young Negro. Profanity had become my lan-
guage. I’d even curse customers, especially servicemen; I
couldn’t stand them. I remember that once, when some passen-
ger complaints had gotten me a waming, and I wanted to be
careful, I was working down the aisle and a big, beefy, red-
faced cracker soldier got up in front of me, so drunk he was
weaving, and announced loud enough that everybody in the car
heard him, ‘‘I’m going to fight you, nigger.’’ I remember the
tension. I laughed and told him, ‘‘Sure, I’ll fight, but you’ve
got too many clothes on.’’ He had on a big Army overcoat. He
took that off, and I kept laughing and said he still had on too
many. I was able to keep that cracker stripping off clothes until
he stood there drunk with nothing on from his pants up, and the

HARLEMITE 8l

whole car was laughing at him, and some other soldiers got him
out of the way. I went on. I never would forget that—that I
couldn’t have whipped that white man as badly with a club as I
had with my mind.

Many of the New Haven Line’s cooks and waiters still in
railroad service today will remember old Pappy Cousins. He
was the ‘‘Yankee Clipper’’ steward, a white man, of course,
from Maine. (Negroes had been in dining car service as much
as thirty and forty years, but in those days there were no Negro
stewards on the New Haven Line.) Anyway, Pappy Cousins
loved whisky, and he liked everybody, even me. A lot of pas-
senger complaints about me, Pappy had let slide. He’d ask some
of the old Negroes working with me to try and calm me down.

‘*Man, you can’t tell him nothing!’’ they’d exclaim. And they
couldn’t. At home in Roxbury, they would see me parading with
Sophia, dressed in my wild zoot suits. Then I’d come to work,
loud and wild and half-high on liquor or reefers, and I’d stay
that way, jamming sandwiches at people until we got to New
York. Off the train, I’d go through that Grand Central Station
afternoon rush-hour crowd, and many white people simply
stopped in their tracks to watch me pass. The drape and the cut
of a Zoot suit showed to the best advantage if you were tall—
and I was over six feet. My conk was fire-red. I was really a
clown, but my ignorance made me think I was ‘‘sharp.’’ My
knob-toed, orange-colored ‘‘kick-up’’ shoes were nothing but
Florsheims, the ghetto’s Cadillac of shoes in those days. (Some
shoe companies made these ridiculous styles for sale only in the
black ghettoes where ignorant Negroes like me would pay the
big-name price for something that we associated with being rich. )
And then, between Small’s Paradise, the Braddock Hotel, and
other places—as much as my twenty- or twenty-five-dollar pay
would allow, I drank liquor, smoked marijuana, painted the Big
Apple red with increasing numbers of friends, and finally in
Mrs. Fisher’s rooming house I got a few hours of sleep before
the ‘“Yankee Clipper’’ rolled again.

It was inevitable that I was going to be fired sooner or later.
What finally finished me was an angry letter from a passenger.
The conductors added their bit, telling how many verbal com-
plaints they’d had, and how many warnings I’d been given.

82 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

But I didn’t care, because in those wartime days such jobs as
I could aspire to were going begging. When the New Haven
Line paid me off, I decided it would be nice to make a trip to
visit my brothers and sisters in Lansing. I had accumulated some
railroad free-travel privileges.

None of them back in Michigan could believe it was me. Only
my oldest brother, Wilfred, wasn’t there; he was away at Wil-
berforce University in Ohio studying a trade. But Philbert and
Hilda were working in Lansing. Reginald, the one who had
always looked up to me, had gotten big enough to fake his age,
and he was planning soon to enter the merchant marine. Yvonne,
Wesley and Robert were in school.

My conk and whole costume were so wild that I might have
been taken as a man from Mars. I caused a minor automobile
collision; one driver stopped to gape at me, and the driver behind
bumped into him. My appearance staggered the older boys I had
once envied; I’d stick out my hand, saying ‘‘Skin me,
daddy-o!’’ My stories about the Big Apple, my reefers keep-
ing me sky-high—wherever I went, I was the life of the
party. ‘“‘My man! . . . Gimme some skin!”’

The only thing that brought me down to earth was the visit to
the state hospital in Kalamazoo. My mother sort of half-sensed
who I was.

And I looked up Shorty’s mother. I knew he’d be touched by
my doing that. She was an old lady, and she was glad to hear
from Shorty through me. I told her that Shorty was doing fine
and one day was going to be a great leader of his own band. She
asked me to tell Shorty that she wished he’d wnte her, and send
her something.

And I dropped over to Mason to see Mrs. Swerlin, the woman
at the detention home who had kept me those couple of years.
Her mouth flew open when she came to the door. My sharkskin
gray “‘Cab Calloway’’ zoot suit, the long, narrow, knob-toed
shoes, and the four-inch-brimmed pearl-gray hat over my conked
fire-red hair; it was just about too much for Mrs. Swerlin. She
just managed to pull herself together enough to invite me in.
Between the way I looked and my style of talk, I made her so
nervous and uncomfortable that we were both glad when I left.

The night before I left, a dance was given in the Lincoln
School gymnasium. (I’ve since learned that in a strange city, to

HARLEMITE 83

find the Negroes without asking where, you just check in the
phone book for a ‘‘Lincoln School.’’ It’s always located in the
segregated black ghetto—at least it was, in those days.) I’d left
Lansing unable to dance, but now I went around the gymnasium
floor flinging little girls over my shoulders and hips, showing
my most startling steps. Several times, the little band nearly
stopped, and nearly everybody left the floor, watching with their
eyes like saucers. That night, I even signed autographs—
‘*Harlem Red’’—and I left Lansing shocked and rocked.

Back in New York, stone broke and without any means of
support, I realized that the railroad was all that I actually knew
anything about. So I went over to the Seaboard Line’s hiring
office. The railroads needed men so badly that all I had to do was
tell them I had worked on the New Haven, and two days later I
was on the ‘‘Silver Meteor’’ to St. Petersburg and Miami. Renting
pillows and keeping the coaches clean and the white passengers
happy, I made about as much as I had with sandwiches.

I soon ran afoul of the Florida cracker who was assistant
conductor. Back in New York, they told me to find another job.
But that afternoon, when I walked into Small’s Paradise, one of
the bartenders, knowing how much I loved New York, called
me aside and said that if I were willing to quit the railroad, I
might be able to replace a day waiter who was about to go into
the Army.

The owner of the bar was Ed Small. He and his brother Char-
lie were inseparable, and I guess Harlem didn’t have two more
popular and respected people. They knew I was a railroad man,
which, for a waiter, was the best kind of recommendation. Char-
lie Small was the one I actually talked with in their office. I was
afraid he’d want to wait to ask some of his old-timer railroad
friends for their opinion. Charlie wouldn’t have gone for any-
body he heard was wild. But he decided on the basis of his own
impression, having seen me in his place so many times, sitting
quietly, almost in awe, observing the hustling set. I told him,
when he asked, that I’d never been in trouble with the police—
and up to then, that was the truth. Charlie told me their rules for
employees: no lateness, no laziness, no stealing, no kind of
hustling off any customers, especially men in uniform. And I
was hired.

This was in 1942. I had just turned seventeen.

84 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X
*k K *

With Small’s practically in the center of everything, wait-
ing tables there was Seventh Heaven seven times over.
Charlie Small had no need to caution me against being late;
I was so anxious to be there, I’d arrive an hour early. I
relieved the morning waiter. As far as he was concerned,
mine was the slowest, most no-tips time of day, and some-
times he’d stick around most of that hour teaching me things,
for he didn’t want to see me fired.

Thanks to him, I learned very quickly dozens of little things
that could really ingratiate a new waiter with the cooks and
bartenders. Both of these, depending on how they liked the
waiter, could make his job miserable or pleasant—and I meant
to become indispensable. Inside of a week, I had succeeded with
both. And the customers who had seen me among them around
the bar, recognizing me now in the waiter’s jacket, were pleased
and surprised; and they couldn’t have been more friendly. And
I couldn’t have been more solicitous.

‘Another drink? . . . Right away, sir . . . Would you like
dinner? . . . It’s very good. . . Could I get you a menu, sir?. . .
Well, maybe a sandwich?”’

Not only the bartenders and cooks, who knew everything
about everything, it seemed to me, but even the customers, also
began to school me, in little conversations by the bar when I
wasn’t busy. Sometimes a customer would talk to me as he ate.
Sometimes I'd have long talks—absorbing everything—with the
real old-timers, who had been around Harlem since Negroes first
came there.

That, in fact, was one of my biggest surprises: that Harlem
hadn’t always been a community of Negroes.

It first had been a Dutch settlement, I learned. Then began
the massive waves of poor and half-starved and ragged immi-
grants from Europe, arriving with everything they owned in the
world in bags and sacks on their backs. The Germans came first;
the Dutch edged away from them, and Harlem became all Ger-
man.

Then came the Irish, running from the potato famine. The
Germans ran, looking down their noses at the Irish, who took
over Harlem. Next, the Italians; same thing—the Irish ran from

HARLEMITE 85

them. The Italians had Harlem when the Jews came down the
gangplanks—and then the Italians left.

Today, all these same immigrants’ descendants are running
as hard as they can to escape the descendants of the Negroes
who helped to unload the immigrant ships.

I was staggered when old-timer Harlemites told me that while
this immigrant musical chairs game had been going on, Negroes
had been in New York City since 1683, before any of them
came, and had been ghettoed all over the city. They had first
been in the Wall Street area; then they were pushed into Green-
wich Village. The next shove was up to the Pennsylvania Station
area. And then, the last stop before Harlem, the black ghetto
was concentrated around 52nd Street, which is how 52nd Street
got the Swing Street name and reputation that lasted long after
the Negroes were gone.

Then, in 1910, a Negro real estate man somehow got two or
three Negro families into one Jewish Harlem apartment house.
The Jews flew from that house, then from that block, and more
Negroes came in to fill their apartments. Then whole blocks of
Jews ran, and still more Negroes came uptown, until in a short
time, Harlem was like it still is today—virtually all black.

Then, early in the 1920’s music and entertainment sprang up
as an industry in Harlem, supported by downtown whites who
poured uptown every night. It all started about the time a tough
young New Orleans cornet man named Louis ‘‘Satchmo’’ Arm-
strong climbed off a train in New York wearing clodhopper
policemen’s shoes, and started playing with Fletcher Hender-
son. In 1925, Small’s Paradise had opened with crowds all across
Seventh Avenue; in 1926, the great Cotton Club, where Duke
Ellington’s band would play for five years; also in 1926 the
Savoy Ballroom opened, a whole block front on Lenox Avenue,
with a two-hundred-foot dance floor under spotlights before two
bandstands and a disappearing rear stage.

Harlem’s famous image spread until it swarmed nightly with
white people from all over the world. The tourist buses came
there. The Cotton Club catered to whites only, and hundreds of
other clubs ranging on down to cellar speakeasies catered to
white people’s money. Some of the best-known were Connie’s
Inn, the Lenox Club, Barron’s, The Nest Club, Jimmy’s Chicken
Shack, and Minton’s. The Savoy, the Golden Gate, and the

86 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Renaissance ballrooms battled for the crowds—the Savoy intro-
duced such attractions as Thursday Kitchen Mechanics’ Nights,
bathing beauty contests, and a new car given away each Satur-
day night. They had bands from all across the country in the
ballrooms and the Apollo and Lafayette theaters. They had col-
orful bandleaders like "Fess Williams in his diamond-studded
suit and top hat, and Cab Calloway in his white zoot suit to end
all zoots, and his wide-brimmed white hat and string tie, setting
Harlem afire with ‘‘Tiger Rag’’ and ‘‘St. James Infirmary’’ and
‘*Minnie the Moocher.”’

Blacktown crawled with white people, with pimps, prosti-
tutes, bootleggers, with hustlers of all kinds, with colorful char-
acters, and with police and prohibition agents. Negroes danced
like they never have anywhere before or since. I guess I must
have heard twenty-five of the old-timers in Small’s swear to me
that they had been the first to dance in the Savoy the ‘‘Lindy
Hop’’ which was born there in 1927, named for Lindbergh, who
had just made his flight to Paris.

Even the little cellar places with only piano space had fabu-
lous keyboard artists such as James P. Johnson and Jelly Roll
Morton, and singers such as Ethel Waters. And at four A.M.,
when all the legitimate clubs had to close, from all over town
the white and Negro musicians would come to some prearranged
Harlem after-hours spot and have thirty- and forty-piece jam
sessions that would last into the next day.

When it all ended with the stock market crash in 1929, Harlem
had a world reputation as America’s Casbah. Small’s had been
a part of all that. There, I heard the old-timers reminisce about
all those great times.

Every day I listened raptly to customers who felt like talking,
and it all added to my education. My ears soaked it up like
sponges when one of them, in a rare burst of confidence, or a
little beyond his usual number of drinks, would tell me inside
things about the particular form of hustling that he pursued as a
way of life. I was thus schooled well, by experts in such hustles
as the numbers, pimping, con games of many kinds, peddling
dope, and thievery of all sorts, including armed robbery.

CHAPTER SIX
DETROIT RED

Every day, I would gamble all of my tips—as high as fifteen and
twenty dollars—on the numbers, and dream of what I would do
when [ hit.

I saw people on their long, wild spending sprees, after big
hits. I don’t mean just hustlers who always had some money. I
mean ordinary working people, the kind that we otherwise al-
most never saw in a bar like Small’s, who, with a good enough
hit, had quit their jobs working somewhere downtown for the
white man. Often they had bought a Cadillac, and sometimes
for three and four days, they were setting up drinks and buying
steaks for all their friends. I would have to pull two tables to-
gether into one, and they would be throwing me two- and three-
dollar tins each time I came with my tray.

Hundreds of thousands of New York City Negroes, every day
but Sunday, would play from a penny on up to large sums on
three-digit numbers. A hit meant duplicating the last three fig-
ures of the Stock Exchange’s printed daily total of U.S. domes-
tic and foreign sales.

With the odds at six hundred to one, a penny hit won $6, a
dollar won $600, and so on. On $15, the hit would mean $9,000.
Famous hits like that had bought controlling interests in lots of
Harlem’s bars and restaurants, or even bought some of them
outright. The chances of hitting were a thousand to one. Many
players practiced what was called “‘combinating.’’ For example
Six cents would put one penny on each of the six possible com-
binations of three digits. The number 840, combinated, would
include 840, 804, 048, 084, 408, and 480.

87

88 |THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Practically everyone played every day in the poverty-ridden
black ghetto of Harlem. Every day, someone you knew was
likely to hit and of course it was neighborhood news; if big
enough a hit, neighborhood excitement. Hits generally were
small; a nickel, dime, or a quarter. Most people tried to play a
dollar a day, but split it up among different numbers and com-
binated.

Harlem’s numbers industry hummed every morning and into
the early afternoon, with the runners jotting down people’s bets
on slips of paper in apartment house hallways, bars, barber-
shops, stores, on the sidewalks. The cops looked on; no runner
lasted long who didn’t, out of his pocket, put in a free “‘figger’’
for his working area’s foot cops, and it was generally known
that the numbers bankers paid off at higher levels of the police
department.

The daily small army of runners each got ten percent of the
money they turned in, along with the bet slips, to their control-
lers. (And if you hit, you gave the runner a ten percent tip.) A
controller might have as many as fifty runners working for him,
and the controller got five percent of what he turned over to the
banker, who paid off the hit, paid off the police, and got rich off
the balance.

Some people played one number all year. Many had lists of
the daily hit numbers going back for years; they figured reap-
pearance odds, and used other systems. Others played their
hunches: addresses, license numbers of passing cars, any num-
bers on letters, telegrams, laundry slips, numbers from any-
where. Dream books that cost a dollar would say what number
nearly any dream suggested. Evangelists who on Sundays ped-
dled Jesus, and mystics, would pray a lucky number for you,
for a fee.

Recently, the last three numbers of the post office’s new Zip
Code for a postal district of Harlem hit, and one banker almost
went broke. Let this very book circulate widely in the black
ghettoes of the country, and—although I’m no longer a gambling
person—I’d lay a small wager for your favorite charity that mil-
lions of dollars would be bet by my poor, foolish black brothers
and sisters upon, say, whatever happens to be the number of
this page, or whatever is the total of the whole book’s pages.

Every day in Small’s Paradise Bar was fascinating to me. And

DETROIT RED 89

from a Harlem point of view, I couldn’t have been in a more
educational situation. Some of the ablest of New York’s black
hustlers took a liking to me, and knowing that I still was green
by their terms, soon began in a paternal way to “‘straighten Red
out.”’

Their methods would be indirect. A dark, businessman-
looking West Indian often would sit at one of my tables. One
day when I brought his beer, he said, ‘‘Red, hold still a min-
ute.’’ He went over me with one of those yellow tape measures,
and jotted figures in his notebook. When I came to work the
next afternoon, one of the bartenders handed me a package. In
it was an expensive, dark blue suit, conservatively cut. The gift
was thoughtful, and the message clear.

The bartenders let me know that this customer was one of the
top executives of the fabulous Forty Thieves gang. That was the
gang of organized boosters, who would deliver, to order, in one
day, C.O.D., any kind of garment you desired. You would pay
about one-third of the store’s price.

I heard how they made mass hauls. A well-dressed member
of the gang who wouldn’t arouse suspicion by his manner would
go into a selected store about closing time, hide somewhere, and
get locked inside when the store closed. The police patrols would
have been timed beforehand. After dark, he’d pack suits in bags,
then turn off the burglar alarm, and use the telephone to call a
waiting truck and crew. When the truck came, timed with the
police patrols, it would be loaded and gone within a few min-
utes. I later got to know several members of the Forty Thieves.

Plainclothes detectives soon were quietly identified to me, by
a nod, a wink. Knowing the law people in the area was elemen-
tary for the hustlers, and, like them, in time I would learn to
sense the presence of any police types. In late 1942, each of the
military services had their civilian-dress eyes and ears picking
up anything of interest to them, such as hustles being used to
avoid the draft, or who hadn’t registered, or hustles that were
being worked on servicemen.

Longshoremen, or fences for them, would come into the bars
selling guns, cameras, perfumes, watches, and the like, stolen
from the shipping docks. These Negroes got what white-
longshoreman thievery left over. Merchant marine sailors often
brought in foreign items, bargains, and the best marijuana cig-

90 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

arettes to be had were made of the gunja and kisca that merchant
sailors smuggled in from Africa and Persia.

In the daytime, whites were given a guarded treatment. Whites
who came at night got a better reception; the several Harlem
nightclubs they patronized were geared to entertain and jive the
night white crowd to get their money.

And with so many law agencies guarding the ‘‘morals’’ of
servicemen, any of them that came in, and a lot did, were given
what they asked for, and were spoken to if they spoke, and that
was all, unless someone knew them as natives of Harlem.

What I was learning was the hustling society’s first rule; that
you never trusted anyone outside of your own closemouthed
circle, and that you selected with time and care before you made
any intimates even among these.

The bartenders would let me know which among the regular
customers were mostly ‘‘fronts,’’ and which really had some-
thing going; which were really in the underworld, with down-
town police or political connections; which really handled some
money, and which were making it from day to day; which were
the real gamblers, and which had just hit a little luck; and which
ones never to run afoul of in any way.

The latter were extremely well known about Harlem, and they
were feared and respected. It was known that if upset, they
would break open your head and think nothing of it. These were
old-timers, not to be confused with the various hotheaded, wild,
young hustlers out trying to make a name for themselves for
being crazy with a pistol trigger or a knife. The old heads that
I’m talking about were such as “‘Black Sammy,’’ ‘‘Bub’’ Hew-
lett, ‘“King’’ Padmore and ‘‘West Indian Archie.’’ Most of these
tough ones had worked as strongarm men for Dutch Schultz
back when he muscled into the Harlem numbers industry after
white gangsters had awakened to the fortunes being made in
what they had previously considered ‘‘nigger pennies’’; and the
numbers game was referred to by the white racketeers as ‘‘nig-
ger pool.’’

Those tough Negroes’ heyday had been before the big 1931
Seabury Investigation that started Dutch Schultz on the way out,
until his career ended with his 1934 assassination. I heard stories
of how they had ‘‘persuaded’’ people with lead pipes, wet ce-
ment, baseball bats, brass knuckles, fists, feet, and blackjacks.

DETROIT RED Ql]

Nearly every one of them had done some time, and had come
back on the scene, and since had worked as top runners for the
biggest bankers who specialized in large bettors.

There seemed to be an understanding that these Negroes and
the tough black cops never clashed; I guess both knew that
someone would die. They had some bad black cops in Harlem,
too. The Four Horsemen that worked Sugar Hill—I remember
the worst one had freckles—there was a tough quartet. The big-
gest, blackest, worst cop of them all in Harlem was the West
Indian, Brisbane. Negroes crossed the street to avoid him when
he walked his 125th Street and Seventh Avenue beat. When I
was in prison, someone brought me a story that Brisbane had
been shot to death by a scared, nervous young kid who hadn’t
been up from the South long enough to realize how bad Brisbane
was.

The world’s most unlikely pimp was ‘‘Cadillac’’ Drake. He
was shiny baldheaded, built like a football; he used to call his
huge belly “‘the chippies’ playground.’’ Cadillac had a string of
about a dozen of the stringiest, scrawniest, black and white street
prostitutes in Harlem. Afternoons around the bar, the old-timers
who knew Cadillac well enough would tease him about how
women who looked like his made enough to feed themselves,
let alone him. He’d roar with laughter night along with us; I can
hear him now, ‘‘Bad-looking women work harder.’’

Just about the complete opposite of Cadillac was the young,
smooth, independent-acting pimp, “‘Sammy the Pimp.’’ He
could, as I have mentioned, pick out potential prostitutes by
watching their expressions in dance halls. Sammy and I became,
in time, each other’s closest friend. Sammy, who was from Ken-
tucky, was a cool, collected expert in his business, and his busi-
ness was women. Like Cadillac, he too had both black and white
women out making his living, but Sammy’s women—who would
come into Small’s sometimes, looking for him, to give him
money, and have him buy them a drink—were about as beautiful
as any prostitutes who operated anywhere, I’d imagine.

One of his white women, known as ‘‘Alabama Peach,’’ a
blonde, could put everybody in stitches with her draw]; even the
several Negro women numbers controllers around Small’s really
liked her. What made a lot of Negroes around the bar laugh the
hardest was the way she would take three syllables to say ‘‘nig-

92 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

ger.’’ But what she usually was saying was ‘‘Ah jes’ lu-uv ni-
uh-guhs—.’’ Give her two drinks and she would tell her life
story in a minute; how in whatever little Alabama town it was
She came from, the first thing she remembered being conscious
of was that she was supposed to ‘‘hate niggers.’’ And then she
started hearing older girls in grade school whispering the hush-
hush that ‘‘niggers’’ were such sexual giants and athletes, and
she started growing up secretly wanting to try one. Finally, nght
in her own house, with her family away, she threatened a Negro
man who worked for her father that if he didn’t take her she
would swear he tried rape. He had no choice, except that he quit
working for them. And from then until she finished high school,
she managed it several times with other Negroes—and she some-
how came to New York, and went straight to Harlem. Later on,
Sammy told me how he had happened to spot her in the Savoy,
not even dancing with anybody, just standing on the side-
lines, watching, and he could tell. And once she really went
for Negroes, the more the better, Sammy said, and wouldn’t
have a white man. I have wondered what ever became of her.

There was a big, fat pimp we called ‘‘Dollarbill.’’ He loved
to flash his ‘‘Kansas City roll,’’ probably fifty one-dollar bills
folded with a twenty on the inside and a one-hundred dollar bill
on the outside. We always wondered what Dollarbill would do
if someone ever stole his hundred-dollar ‘‘cover.’’

A man who, in his prime, could have stolen Dollarbill’s whole
roll, blindfolded, was threadbare, comic old ‘‘Fewclothes.”’
Fewclothes had been one of the best pickpockets in Harlem,
back when the white people swarmed up every night in the
1920’s, but then during the Depression, he had contracted a bad
case of arthritis in his hands. His finger joints were knotted and
gnarled so that it made people uncomfortable to look at them.
Rain, sleet, or snow, every afternoon, about six, Fewclothes
would be at Small’s, telling tall tales about the old days, and it
was one of the day’s rituals for one or another regular customer
to ask the bartender to give him drinks, and me to feed him.

My heart goes out to all of us who in those afternoons at
Small’s enacted our scene with Fewclothes. I wish you could
have seen him, pleasantly ‘‘high’’ with drinks, take his seat with
dignity—no begging, not on anybody’s Welfare—and open his
napkin, and study the day’s menu that I gave him, and place his

DETROIT RED 93

order. I’d tell the cooks it was Fewclothes and he’d get the best
in the house. I’d go back and serve it as though he were a
millionaire.

Many times since, I have thought about it, and what it really
meant. In one sense, we were huddled in there, bonded together
in seeking security and warmth and comfort from each other,
and we didn’t know it. All of us—who might have probed space,
or cured cancer, or built industries—were, instead, black victims
of the white man’s American social system. In another sense,
the tragedy of the once master pickpocket made him, for those
brother old-timer hustlers, a ‘‘there but for the grace of God’’
symbol. To wolves who still were able to catch some rabbits, it
had meaning that an old wolf who had lost his fangs was still
eating.

Then there was the burglar, ‘‘Jumpsteady.’’ In the ghettoes
the white man has built for us, he has forced us not to aspire to
greater things, but to view everyday living as survival—and in
that kind of a community, survival is what is respected. In any
average white neighborhood bar, you couldn’t imagine a known
cat-man thief regularly exposing himself, as one of the most
popular people in there. But if Jumpsteady missed a few days
running in Small’s, we would begin inquiring for him.

Jumpsteady was called that because, it was said, when he
worked in white residential areas downtown, he jumped from
roof to roof and was so steady that he maneuvered along window
ledges, leaning, balancing, edging with his toes. If he fell, he’d
have been dead. He got into apartments through windows. It
was Said that he was so cool that he had stolen even with people
in the next room. I later found out that Jumpsteady always keyed
himself up high on dope when he worked. He taught me some
things that I was to employ in later years when hard times would
force me to have my own burglary ring.

I should stress that Small’s wasn’t any nest of criminals. I
dwell upon the hustlers because it was their world that fascinated
me. Actually, for the night-life crowd, Small’s was one of Har-
lem’s two or three most decorous nightspots. In fact, the New
York City police department recommended Small’s to white
people who would ask for a ‘‘safe’’ place in Harlem.

The first room I got after I left the railroad (half of Harlem
roomed) was in the 800 block of St. Nicholas Avenue. You

94 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

could walk into one or another room in this house and get a hot
fur coat, a good camera, fine perfume, a gun, anything from hot
women to hot cars, even hot ice. I was one of the very few males
in this rooming house. This was during the war, when you
couldn’t turn on the radio and not hear about Guadalcanal or
North Africa. In several of the apartments the women tenants
were prostitutes. The minority were in some other racket or
hustle—boosters, numbers runners, or dope-peddlers—and I’d
guess that everyone who lived in the house used dope of some
kind. This shouldn’t reflect too badly on that particular building,
because almost everyone in Harlem needed some kind of hustle
to survive, and needed to stay high in some way to forget what
they had to do to survive.

It was in this house that I learned more about women than I
ever did in any other single place. It was these working prosti-
tutes who schooled me to things that every wife and every hus-
band should know. Later on, it was chiefly the women who
weren’t prostitutes who taught me to be very distrustful of most
women; there seemed to be a higher code of ethics and sisterli-
ness among those prostitutes than among numerous ladies of the
church who have more men for kicks than the prostitutes have
for pay. And I am talking about both black and white. Many of
the black ones in those wartime days were right in step with the
white ones in having husbands fighting overseas while they were
laying up with other men, even giving them their husbands’
money. And many women just faked as mothers and wives,
while playing the field as hard as prostitutes—with their hus-
bands and children nght there in New York.

I got my first schooling about the cesspool morals of the white
man from the best possible source, from his own women. And
then as I got deeper into my own life of evil, I saw the white
man’s morals with my own eyes. I even made my living helping
to guide him to the sick things he wanted.

I was young, working in the bar, not bothering with these
women. Probably I touched their kid-brother instincts, some-
thing like that. Some would drop into my room when they
weren’t busy, and we would smoke reefers and talk. It generally
would be after their morning rush—but let me tell you about that
rush.

Seeing the hallways and stairs busy any hour of the night with

DETROITRED 95

white and black men coming and going was no more than one
would expect when one lived in a building out of which prosti-
tutes were working. But what astonished me was the full-house
crowd that rushed in between, say, six and seven-thirty in the
morning, then rushed away, and by about nine, I would be the
only man in the house.

It was husbands—who had left home in time to stop by this
St. Nicholas Avenue house before they went on to work. Of
course not the same ones every day, but always enough of them
to make up the rush. And it included white men who had come
in cabs all the way up from downtown.

Domineering, complaining, demanding wives who had just
about psychologically castrated their husbands were responsible
for the early rush. These wives were so disagreeable and had
made their men so tense that they were robbed of the satisfaction
of being men. To escape this tension and the chance of being
ridiculed by his own wife, each of these men had gotten up early
and come to a prostitute.

The prostitutes had to make it their business to be students of
men. They said that after most men passed their virile twenties,
they went to bed mainly to satisfy their egos, and because a lot
of women don’t understand it that way, they damage and wreck
a man’s ego. No matter how little virility a man has to offer,
prostitutes make him feel for a time that he is the greatest man
in the world. That’s why these prostitutes had that moming rush
of business. More wives could keep their husbands if they re-
alized their greatest urge is to be men.

Those women would tell me anything. Funny little stories
about the bedroom differences they saw between white and black
men. The perversities! I thought I had heard the whole range of
perversities until I later became a steerer taking white men to
what they wanted. Everyone in the house laughed about the little
Italian fellow whom they called the ‘‘Ten Dollar A Minute
Man.’’ He came without fail every noontime, from his little
basement restaurant up near the Polo Grounds; the joke was he
never lasted more than two minutes. . . but he always left twenty
dollars.

Most men, the prostitutes felt, were too easy to push around.
Every day these prostitutes heard their customers complaining
that they never heard anything but griping from women who

96 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

were being taken care of and given everything. The prostitutes
said that most men needed to know what the pimps knew. A
woman should occasionally be babied enough to show her the
man had affection, but beyond that she should be treated firmly.
These tough women said that it worked with them. All women,
by their nature, are fragile and weak: they are attracted to the
male in whom they see strength.

From time to time, Sophia would come over to see me from
Boston. Even among Harlem Negroes, her looks gave me status.
They were just like the Negroes everywhere else. That was why
the white prostitutes made so much money. It didn’t make any
difference if you were in Lansing, Boston, or New York—
what the white racist said, and still says, was night in those
days! All you had to do was put a white girl anywhere close
to the average black man, and he would respond. The black
woman also made the white man’s eyes light up—but he was
slick enough to hide it.

Sophia would come in on a late afternoon train. She would
come to Small’s and I’d introduce her around until I got off from
work. She was bothered about me living among the prostitutes
until I introduced her to some of them, and they talked, and she
thought they were great. They would tell her they were keeping
me straight for her. We would go to the Braddock Hotel bar,
where we would meet some of the musicians who now would
greet me like an old friend, “‘Hey, Red—who have we got
here?’’ They would make a big deal over her; I couldn’t even
think about buying a drink. No Negroes in the world were more
white-woman-crazy in those days than most of those musicians.
People in show business, of course, were less inhibited by social
and racial taboos.

The white racist won’t tell you that it also works in reverse.
When it got late, Sophia and I would go to some of the after-
hours places and speakeasies. When the downtown nightclubs
had closed, most of these Harlem places crawled with white
people. These whites were just mad for Negro ‘‘atmosphere,’’
especially some of the places which had what you might call
Negro soul. Sometimes Negroes would talk about how a lot of
whites seemed unable to have enough of being close around us,

DETROIT RED 97

and among us—in groups. Both white men and women, it
seemed, would get almost mesmerized by Negroes.

I remember one really peculiar case of this—a white girl who
never missed a single night in the Savoy Ballroom. She fasci-
nated my friend Sammy; he had watched her several times.
Dancing only with Negroes, she seemed to go nearly into a
trance. If a white man asked her to dance, she would refuse.
Then when the place was ready to close, early in the morning,
she would let a Negro take her as far as the subway entrance. And
that was it. She never would tell anyone her name, let alone
reveal where she lived.

Now, I’ll tell you another peculiar case that worked out dif-
ferently, and which taught me something I have since learned
in a thousand other ways. This was my best early lesson in how
most white men’s hearts and guts will turn over inside of them,
whatever they may have you otherwise believe, whenever they
see a Negro man on close terms with a white woman.

A few of the white men around Harlem, younger ones whom
we Called ‘‘hippies,’’ acted more Negro than Negroes. This par-
ticular one talked more ‘‘hip’’ talk than we did. He would have
fought anyone who suggested he felt any race difference. Mu-
sicians around the Braddock could hardly move without falling
over him. Every time I saw him, it was ‘‘Daddy! Come on, let’s
get our heads tight!’ Sammy couldn’t stand him; he was un-
derfoot wherever you went. He even wore a wild zoot suit,
used a heavy grease in his hair to make it look like a conk,
and he wore the knob-toed shoes, the long, swinging chain—
everything. And he not only wouldn’t be seen with any woman
but a black one, but in fact he lived with two of them in the
same little apartment. I never was sure how they worked that
one out, but I had my idea.

About three or four o’clock one morning, we ran into this
white boy, in Creole Bill’s speakeasy. He was high—in that
marijuana glow where the world relaxes. I introduced Sophia; I
went away to say hello to someone else. When I returned, So-
phia looked peculiar—but she wouldn’t tell me until we left. He
had asked her, ““Why is a white girl like you throwing yourself
away with a spade?”’

Creole Bill—naturally you know he was from New Orleans—
became another good friend of mine. After Small’s closed, I’d

98 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

bring fast-spending white people who still wanted some drinking
action to Creole Bill’s speakeasy. That was my earliest experi-
ence at steering. The speakeasy was only Creole Bill’s apart-
ment. I think a partition had been knocked out to make the living
room larger. But the atmosphere, plus the food, made the place
one of Harlem’s soul spots.

A record player maintained the right, soft music. There was
any kind of drink. And Bill sold plates of his spicy, delicious
Creole dishes—gumbo, jambalaya. Bill’s girl friend—a beauti-
ful black girl—served the customers. Bill called her ‘*Brown
Sugar,’’ and finally everyone else did. If a good number of
customers were to be served at one time, Creole Bill would bring
out some pots, Brown Sugar would bring the plates, and Bill
would serve everyone big platefuls; and he’d heap a plate for
himself and eat with us. It was a treat to watch him eat; he loved
his food so; it was good. Bill could cook rice like the Chinese—
I mean rice that stood every grain on its own, but I never knew
the Chinese to do what Bill could with seafood and beans.

Bill made money enough in that apartment speakeasy to open
up a Creole restaurant famous in Harlem. He was a great base-
ball fan. All over the walls were framed, autographed photo-
graphs of major league stars, and also some political and show
business celebrities who would come there to eat, bringing
friends. I wonder what’s become of Creole Bull? His place is
sold, and I haven’t heard anything of him. I must remember to
ask some of the Seventh Avenue old-timers, who would know.

Once, when I called Sophia in Boston, she said she couldn’t
get away until the following weekend. She had just married
some well-to-do Boston white fellow. He was in the service, he
had been home on leave, and he had just gone back. She didn’t
mean it to change a thing between us. I told her it made no
difference. I had of course introduced Sophia to my friend
Sammy, and we had gone out together some nights. And Sammy
and I had thoroughly discussed the black man and white woman
psychology. [ had Sammy to thank that I was entirely prepared
for Sophia’s marriage.

Sammy said that white women were very practical; he had
heard so many of them express how they felt. They knew that
the black man had all the strikes against him, that the white man
kept the black man down, under his heel, unable to get any-

DETROIT RED 99

where, really. The white woman wanted to be comfortable, she
wanted to be looked upon with favor by her own kind, but also
she wanted to have her pleasure. So some of them just married
a white man for convenience and security, and kept right on
going with a Negro. It wasn’t that they were necessarily in love
with the Negro, but they were in love with lust—particularly
‘‘taboo’” lust.

A white man was not too unusual if he had a ten-, twenty-.
thirty-, forty-, or fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year job. A Negro man
who made even five thousand in the white man’s world was
unusual. The white woman with a Negro man would be with
him for one of two reasons: either extremely insane love, or to
satisfy her lust.

When I had been around Harlem long enough to show signs
of permanence, inevitably I got a nickname that would identify
me beyond any confusion with two other red-conked and well-
known ‘‘Reds’’ who were around. I had met them both; in fact,
later on I’d work with them both. One, ‘‘St. Louis Red,’’ was
a professional armed robber. When I was sent to prison, he was
serving time for trying to stick up a dining car steward on a train
between New York and Philadelphia. He was finally freed; now,
I hear, he is in prison for a New York City jewel robbery.

The other was ‘“Chicago Red.’’ We became good buddies in
a speakeasy where later on I was a waiter; Chicago Red was the
funniest dishwasher on this earth. Now he’s making his living
being funny as a nationally known stage and nightclub come-
dian. I don’t see any reason why old Chicago Red would mind
me telling that he is Redd Foxx.

Anyway, before long, my nickname happened. Just when, I
don’t know—but people, knowing I was from Michigan, would
ask me what city. Since most New Yorkers had never heard of
Lansing, I would name Detroit. Gradually, I began to be called
‘*Detroit Red’’—and it stuck.

One afternoon in early 1943, before the regular six o’clock
crowd had gathered, a black soldier sat drinking by himself at
one of my tables. He must have been there an hour or more. He
looked dumb and pitiful and just up from the Deep South. The
fourth or fifth drink I served this soldier, wiping the table I bent
over close and asked him if he wanted a woman.

100 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I knew better. It wasn’t only Small’s Paradise law, it was the
law of every tavern that wanted to stay in business—never get
involved with anything that could be interpreted as ‘‘impairing
the morals’’ of servicemen, or any kind of hustling off them.
This had caused trouble for dozens of places: some had been
put off limits by the military; some had lost their state or city
licenses.

I played right into the hands of a military spy. He sure would
like a woman. He acted so grateful. He even put on an extreme
Southern accent. And I gave him the phone number of one of
my best friends among the prostitutes where I lived.

But something felt wrong. I gave the fellow a half-hour to get
there, and then I telephoned. I expected the answer I got—that
no soldier had been there.

I didn’t even bother to go back out to the bar. I just went
straight to Charlie Small’s office.

**T just did something, Charlie,’’ I said. ‘‘I don’t know why
I did it—’’ and I told him.

Charlie looked at me. ‘‘I wish you hadn’t done that, Red.’’
We both knew what he meant.

When the West Indian plainclothes detective, Joe Baker, came
in, I was waiting. I didn’t even ask him any questions. When
we got to the 135th Street precinct, it was busy with police in
uniform, and MP’s with soldiers in tow. I was recognized by
some other detectives who, like Joe Baker, sometimes dropped
in at Small’s.

Two things were in my favor. I’d never given the police any
trouble, and when that black spy soldier had tried to tip me, I
had waved it away, telling him I was just doing him a favor.
They must have agreed that Joe Baker should just scare me.

I didn’t know enough to be aware that I wasn’t taken to the
desk and booked. Joe Baker took me back inside of the precinct
building, into a small room. In the next room, we could hear
somebody getting whipped. Whop! Whop! He’d cry out,
‘‘Please! Please don’t beat my face, that’s how I make my liv-
ing!’’ I knew from that it was some pimp. Whop! Whop! ‘‘Please!
Please!”’

(Not much later, I heard that Joe Baker had gotten trapped
over in New Jersey, shaking down a Negro pimp and his white
prostitute. He was discharged from the New York City police

DETROIT RED 101

force, the State of New Jersey convicted him, and he went off
to do some time.)

More bitter than getting fired, I was barred from Small’s. I
could understand. Even if I wasn’t actually what was called
‘‘hot,’’ I was now going to be under surveillance—and the Small
brothers had to protect their business.

Sammy proved to be my friend in need. He put the word on
the wire for me to come over to his place. I had never been
there. His place seemed to me a small palace; his women really
kept him in style. While we talked about what kind of a hustle
I should get into, Sammy gave me some of the best marijuana
I’d ever used.

Various numbers controllers, Small’s regulars, had offered
me jobs as a runner. But that meant I would earn very little until
I could build up a clientele. Pimping, as Sammy did, was out.
I felt I had no abilities in that direction, and that I’d certainly
starve to death trying to recruit prostitutes.

Peddling reefers, Sammy and I pretty soon agreed, was the
best thing. It was a relatively uninvolved lone-wolf type of op-
eration, and one in which I could make money immediately. For
anyone with even a little brains, no experience was needed,
especially if one had any knack at all with people.

Both Sammy and I knew some merchant seamen and others
who could supply me with loose marijuana. And musicians,
among whom I had so many good contacts, were the heaviest
consistent market for reefers. And then, musicians also used the
heavier narcotics, if I later wanted to graduate to them. That
would be more risky, but also more money. Handling heroin
and cocaine could earn one hundreds of dollars a day, but it
required a lot of experience with the narcotics squad for one to
be able to last long enough to make anything.

I had been around long enough either to know or to spot
instinctively most regular detectives and cops, though not the
narcotics people. And among the Small’s veteran hustler regu-
lars, I had a variety of potentially helpful contacts. This was
important because just as Sammy could get me supplied with
maryjuana, a large facet of any hustler’s success was knowing
where he could get help when he needed it. The help could
involve police and detectives—as well as higher ups. But I hadn’t

102 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

yet reached that stage. So Sammy staked me, about twenty dol-
lars, I think it was.

Later that same night, I knocked at his door and gave him
back his money and asked him if I could lend him some. I had
gone straight from Sammy’s to a supplier he had mentioned. I
got just a small amount of marijuana, and I got some of the
paper to roll up my own sticks. As they were only about the size
of stick matches, I was able to make enough of them so that,
after selling them to musicians I knew at the Braddock Hotel, I
could pay back Sammy and have enough profit to be in business.
And those musicians when they saw their buddy, and their fan,
in business: “‘My man!”’ “‘Crazy, Red!”’

In every band, at least half of the musicians smoked reefers.
I’m not going to list names; I’d have to include some of those
most prominent then in popular music, even a number of them
around today. In one case, every man in one of the bands which
is still famous was on marijuana. Or again, any number of mu-
sicians could tell you who I mean when I say that one of the
most famous singers smoked his reefers through a chicken thigh-
bone. He had smoked so many through the bone that he could
just light a match before the empty bone, draw the heat through,
and get what he called a ‘‘contact’’ high.

I kept turning over my profit, increasing my supplies, and I
sold reefers like a wild man. I scarcely slept; I was wherever
musicians congregated. A roll of money was in my pocket. Every
day, I cleared at least fifty or sixty dollars. In those days (or for
that matter these days), this was a fortune to a seventeen-year-
old Negro. I felt, for the first time in my life, that great feeling
of free! Suddenly, now, I was the peer of the other young hus-
tlers I had admired.

It was at this time that I discovered the movies. Sometimes I
made as many as five in one day, both downtown and in Harlem.
I loved the tough guys, the action, Humphrey Bogart in ‘‘Casa-
blanca,’’ and I loved all of that dancing and carrying on in such
films as ‘‘Stormy Weather’’ and ‘‘Cabin in the Sky.’’ After
leaving the movies, I’d make my connections for supplies, then
roll my sticks, and, about dark, I’d start my rounds. I’d give a
couple of extra sticks when someone bought ten, which was five
dollars’ worth. And I didn’t sell and run, because my customers

DETROIT RED 103

were my friends. Often I’d smoke along with them. None of
them stayed any more high than J did.

Free now to do what I pleased, upon an impulse I went to
Boston. Of course, I saw Ella. I gave her some money: it was
just a token of appreciation, I told her, for helping me when I
had come from Lansing. She wasn’t the same old Ella; she still
hadn’t forgiven me for Laura. She never mentioned her, nor did
I. But, even so, Ella acted better than she had when I had left
for New York. We reviewed the family changes. Wilfred had
proved so good at his trade they had asked him to stay on at
Wilberforce as an instructor. And Ella had gotten a card from
Reginald who had managed to get into the merchant marine.

From Shorty’s apartment, I called Sophia. She met me at the
apartment just about as Shorty went off to work. I would have
liked to take her out to some of the Roxbury clubs, but Shorty
had told us that, as in New York, the Boston cops used the war
as an excuse to harass interracial couples, stopping them and
grilling the Negro about his draft status. Of course Sophia’s now
being married made us more cautious, too.

When Sophia caught a cab home, I went to hear Shorty’s
band. Yes, he had a band now. He had succeeded in getting a
4-F classification, and I was pleased for him and happy to go.
His band was—well, fair. But Shorty was making out well in
Boston, playing in small clubs. Back in the apartment, we talked
into the next day. “‘Homeboy, you’re something else!’’ Shorty
kept saying. I told him some of the wild things I’d done in
Harlem, and about the friends I had. I told him the story of
Sammy the Pimp.

In Sammy’s native Paducah, Kentucky, he had gotten a girl
pregnant. Her parents made it so hot that Sammy had come to
Harlem, where he got a job as a restaurant waiter. When a
woman came in to eat alone, and he found she really was alone,
not married, or living with somebody, it generally was not hard
for smooth Sammy to get invited to her apartment. He’d insist
on going out to a nearby restaurant to bring back some dinner,
and while he was out he would have her key duplicated. Then,
when he knew she was away, Sammy would go in and clean out
all her valuables. Sammy was then able to offer some little stake,
to help her back on her feet. This could be the beginning of an

104 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

emotional and financial dependency, which Sammy knew how
to develop until she was his virtual slave.

Around Harlem, the narcotics squad detectives didn’t take
long to find out I was selling reefers, and occasionally one of
them would follow me. Many a peddler was in jail because he
had been caught with the evidence on his person; I figured a
way to avoid that. The law specified that if the evidence wasn’t
actually in your possession, you couldn’t be arrested. Hollowed-
out shoe heels, fake hat-linings, these things were old stuff to
the detectives.

I carried about fifty sticks in a smal] package inside my coat,
under my armpit, keeping my arm flat against my side. Moving
about, I kept my eyes open. If anybody looked suspicious, I’d
quickly cross the street, or go through a door, or turn a comer,
loosening my arm enough to let the package drop. At night,
when I usually did my selling, any suspicious person wouldn’t
be likely to see the trick. If I decided I had been mistaken, I’d
go back and get my sticks.

However, I lost many a stick this way. Sometimes, I knew I
had frustrated a detective. And I kept out of the courts.

One morning, though, I came in and found signs that my room
had been entered. I knew it had been detectives. I’d heard too
many times how if they couldn’t find any evidence, they would
plant some, where you would never find it, then they’d come
back in and ‘‘find’’ it. I didn’t even have to think twice what to
do. I packed my few belongings and never looked back. When
I went to sleep again, it was in another room.

It was then that I began carrying a little .25 automatic. I got
it, for some reefers, from an addict who I knew had stolen it
somewhere. I carried it pressed under my belt right down the
center of my back. Someone had told me that the cops never hit
there in any routine patting-down. And unless I knew who I was
with, I never allowed myself to get caught in any crush of peo-
ple. The narcotics cops had been known to rush up and get their
hands on you and plant evidence while ‘‘searching.’’ I felt that
as long as I kept on the go, and in the open, I had a good chance.
I don’t know now what my real thoughts were about carrying
the pistol. But I imagine I felt that I wasn’t going to get put away
if somebody tried framing me in any situation that I could help.

DETROIT RED 105

I sold less than before because having to be so careful con-
sumed so much time. Every now and then, on a hunch, I’d move
to another room. I told nobody but Sammy where I slept.

Finally, it was on the wire that the Harlem narcotics squad
had me on its special list.

Now, every other day or so, usually in some public place,
they would flash the badge to search me. But I’d tell them at
once, loud enough for others standing about to hear me, that I
had nothing on me, and I didn’t want to get anything planted on
me. Then they wouldn’t, because Harlem already thought little
enough of the law, and they did have to be careful that some
crowd of Negroes would not intervene roughly. Negroes were
starting to get very tense in Harlem. One could almost smell
trouble ready to break out—as it did very soon.

But it was really tough on me then. I was having to hide my
sticks in various places near where I was selling. I’d put five
sticks in an empty cigarette pack, and drop the empty-looking
pack by a lamppost, or behind a garbage can, or a box. And I’d
first tell customers to pay me, and then where to pick up.

But my regular customers didn’t go for that. You couldn’t
expect a well-known musician to go grubbing behind a garbage
can. So I began to pick up some of the street trade, the people
you could see looked high. I collected a number of empty Red
Cross bandage boxes and used them for drops. That worked
pretty good.

But the middle-Harlem narcotics force found so many ways
to harass me that I had to change my area. I moved down to
lower Harlem, around 110th Street. There were many more
reefer smokers around there, but these were a cheaper type, this
was the worst of the ghetto, the poorest people, the ones who
in every ghetto keep themselves narcotized to keep from having
to face their miserable existence. I didn’t last long down there,
either. I lost too much of my product. After I sold to some of
those reefer smokers who had the instincts of animals, they fol-
lowed me and leamed my pattern. They would dart out of a
doorway, I’d drop my stuff, and they would be on it like a
chicken on corn. When you become an animal, a vulture, in the
ghetto, as I had become, you enter a world of animals and vul-
tures. It becomes truly the survival of only the fittest.

Soon I found myself borrowing little stakes, from Sammy,

106 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

from some of the musicians. Enough to buy supplies, enough
to keep high myself, enough sometimes to just eat.

Then Sammy gave me an idea.

‘‘Red, you still got your old railroad identification?’’ I did
have it. They hadn’t taken it back. ‘‘Well, why don’t you use it
to make a few runs, until the heat cools?”’

He was right.

I found that if you walked up and showed a railroad line’s
employee identification card, the conductor—even a real cracker,
if you approached him right, not begging—would just wave you
aboard. And when he came around he would punch you one of
those little coach seat slips to ride wherever the train went.

The idea came to me that, this way, I could travel all over the
East Coast selling reefers among my friends who were on tour
with their bands.

I had the New Haven identification. I worked a couple of
weeks for other railroads, to get their identification, and then I
was set.

In New York, I rolled and packed a great quantity of sticks,
and sealed them into jars. The identification card worked per-
fectly. If you persuaded the conductor you were a fellow em-
ployee who had to go home on some family business, he just
did the favor for you without a second thought. Most whites
don’t give a Negro credit for having sense enough to fool them—
or nerve enough.

I’d turn up in towns where my friends were playing. ‘‘Red!”’
I was an old friend from home. In the sticks, I was somebody
from the Braddock Hotel. ‘‘My man! Daddy-o!’’ And I had Big
Apple reefers. Nobody had ever heard of a traveling reefer ped-
dler.

I followed no particular band. Each band’s musicians knew
the other bands’ one-nighter touring schedules. When I ran out
of supplies, I’d return to New York, and load up, then hit the
road again. Auditoriums or gymnasiums all lighted up, the
band’s chartered bus outside, the dressed-up, excited, local
dancers pouring in. At the door, I’d announce that I was some
bandman’s brother; in most cases they thought I was one of the
musicians. Throughout the dance, I’d show the country folks
some plain and fancy lindy-hopping. Sometimes, I’d stay over-
night in a town. Sometimes I’d ride the band’s bus to their next

DETROIT RED 107

stop. Sometimes, back in New York, I would stay awhile.
Things had cooled down. Word was around that I had left town,
and the narcotics squad was satisfied with that. In some of the
small towns, people thinking I was with the band even mobbed
me for autographs. Once, in Buffalo, my suit was nearly torn
off.

My brother Reginald was waiting for me one day when I
pulled into New York. The day before, his merchant ship had
put into port over in New Jersey. Thinking I still worked at
Small’s, Reginald had gone there, and the bartenders had di-
rected him to Sammy, who put him up.

It felt good to see my brother. It was hard to believe that he
was once the little kid who tagged after me. Reginald now was
almost six feet tall, but still a few inches shorter than me. His
complexion was darker than mine, but he had greenish eyes,
and a white streak in his hair, which was otherwise dark reddish,
something like mine.

I took Reginald everywhere, introducing him. Studying my
brother, I liked him. He was a lot more self-possessed than I
had been at sixteen.

I didn’t have a room right at the time, but I had some money,
so did Reginald, and we checked into the St. Nicholas Hotel on
Sugar Hill. It has since been torn down.

Reginald and [ talked all night about the Lansing years, about
our family. I told him things about our father and mother that
he couldn’t remember. Then Reginald filled me in on our broth-
ers and sisters. Wilfred was still a trade instructor at Wilberforce
University. Hilda, still in Lansing, was talking of getting mar-
ried; so was Philbert.

Reginald and I were the next two in line. And Yvonne, Wes-
ley, and Robert were still in Lansing, in school.

Reginald and I laughed about Philbert, who, the last time I
had seen him, had gotten deeply religious; he wore one of those
round straw hats.

Reginald’s ship was in for about a week getting some kind of
repairs on its engines. I was pleased to see that Reginald, though
he said little about it, admired my living by my wits. Reginald
dressed a little too loudly, I thought. I got a reefer customer of
mine to get him a more conservative overcoat and suit. I told

108 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Reginald what I had learned: that in order to get something you
had to look as though you already had something.

Before Reginald left, I urged him to leave the merchant ma-
rine and I would help him get started in Harlem. I must have
felt that having my kid brother around me would be a good
thing. Then there would be two people I could trust—Sammy
was the other.

Reginald was cool. At his age, I would have been willing to
run behind the train, to get to New York and to Harlem. But
Reginald, when he left, said, ‘‘I’ll think about it.”’

Not long after Reginald left, I dragged out the wildest zoot
suit in New York. This was 1943. The Boston draft board had
written me at Ella’s, and when they had no results there, had
notified the New York draft board, and, in care of Sammy, I
received Uncle Sam’s Greetings.

In those days only three things in the world scared me: jail, a
job, and the Army. I had about ten days before I was to show
up at the induction center. I went right to work. The Army
Intelligence soldiers, those black spies in civilian clothes, hung
around in Harlem with their ears open for the white man down-
town. I knew exactly where to start dropping the word. I started
noising around that I was frantic to join. . . the Japanese Army.

When I sensed that I had the ears of the spies, I would talk
and act high and crazy. A lot of Harlem hustlers actually had
reached that state—as I would later. It was inevitable when one
had gone long enough on heavier and heavier narcotics, and
under the steadily tightening vise of the hustling life. I’d snatch
out and read my Greetings aloud, to make certain they heard
who I was, and when I'd report downtown. (This was probably
the only time my real name was ever heard in Harlem in those
days.)

The day I went down there, I costumed like an actor. With
my wild zoot suit I wore the yellow knob-toe shoes, and I friz-
zled my hair up into a reddish bush of conk.

I went in, skipping and tipping, and I thrust my tattered Greet-
ings at that reception desk’s white soldier—‘‘Crazy-o, daddy-o,
get me moving. I can’t wait to get in that brown’’—very likely
that soldier hasn’t recovered from me yet.

They had their wire on me from uptown, all right. But they
still put me through the line. In that big starting room were forty

DETROIT RED 109

or fifty other prospective inductees. The room had fallen
vacuum-quiet, with me running my mouth a mile a minute,
talking nothing but slang. I was going to fight on all fronts; I
was going to be a general, man, before I got done—such talk as
that.

Most of them were white, of course. The tender-looking ones
appeared ready to run from me. Some others had that vinegary
‘‘worst kind of nigger’’ look. And a few were amused, seeing
me as the ‘‘Harlem jigaboo’’ archetype.

Also amused were some of the room’s ten or twelve Negroes.
But the stony-faced rest of them looked as if they were ready to
sign up to go off killing somebody—they would have liked to
start with me.

The line moved along. Pretty soon, stripped to my shorts, I
was making my eager-to-join comments in the medical exami-
nation rooms—and everybody in the white coats that I saw had
4-F in his eyes.

I stayed in the line longer than I expected, before they si-
phoned me off. One of the white coats accompanied me around
a tuming hallway: I knew we were on the way to a head-
shrinker—the Army psychiatrist.

The receptionist there was a Negro nurse. I remember she
was in her early twenties, and not bad to look at. She was one
of those Negro ‘‘firsts.’’

Negroes know what I’m talking about. Back then, the white
man during the war was so pressed for personne! that he began
letting some Negroes put down their buckets and mops and dust
rags and use a pencil, or sit at some desk, or hold some twenty-
five-cent title. You couldn’t read the Negro press for the big
pictures of smug black ‘‘firsts.’’

Somebody was inside with the psychiatrist. I didn’t even have
to put on any act for this black girl; she was already sick of me.

When, finally, a buzz came at her desk, she didn’t send me,
she went in. I knew what she was doing, she was going to make
clear, in advance, what she thought of me. This is still one of
the black man’s big troubles today. So many of those so-called
‘‘upper-class’’ Negroes are so busy trying to impress on the
white man that they are “‘different from those others’’ that they
can’t see they are only helping the white man to keep his low
opinion of all Negroes.

110 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

And then, with her prestige in the clear, she came out and
nodded to me to go in.

I must say this for that psychiatrist. He tried to be objective
and professional in his manner. He sat there and doodled with
his blue pencil on a tablet, listening to me spiel to him for three
or four minutes before he got a word in.

His tack was quiet questions, to get at why I was so anxious.
I didn’t rush him; I circled and hedged, watching him closely,
to let him think he was pulling what he wanted out of me. I kept
jerking around, backward, as though somebody might be listen-
ing. I knew I was going to send him back to the books to figure
what kind of a case I was.

Suddenly, I sprang up and peeped under both doors, the one
I’d entered and another that probably was a closet. And then I
bent and whispered fast in his ear. ‘‘Daddy-o, now you and me,
we’re from up North here, so don’t you tell nobody. . . . ] want
to get sent down South. Organize them nigger soldiers, you dig?
Steal us some guns, and kill us crackers!”’

That psychiatrist’s blue pencil dropped, and his professional
manner fell off in all directions. He stared at me as if I were a
snake’s egg hatching, fumbling for his red pencil. I knew I had
him. I was going back out past Miss First when he said, ‘“That
will be all.’’

A 4-F card came to me in the mail, and I never heard from
the Army anymore, and never bothered to ask why I was re-
jected.

CHAPTER SEVEN
HUSTLER

I can’t remember all the hustles I had during the next two years
in Harlem, after the abrupt end of my nding the trains and ped-
dling reefers to the touring bands.

Negro railroad men waited for their trains in their big locker
room on the lower level of Grand Central Station. Big blackjack
and poker games went on in there around the clock. Sometimes
five hundred dollars would be on the table. One day, in a black-
jack game, an old cook who was dealing the cards tried to be
slick, and I had to drop my pistol in his face.

The next time I went into one of those games, intuition told
me to stick my gun under my belt nght down the middle of my
back. Sure enough, someone had squealed. Two big, beefy-
faced Irish cops came in. They frisked me—and they missed my
gun where they hadn’t expected one.

The cops told me never again to be caught in Grand Central
Station unless I had a ticket to ride somewhere. And I knew that
by the next day, every railroad’s personnel office would have a
blackball on me, so I never tried to get another railroad job.

There I was back in Harlem’s streets among all the rest of the
hustlers. I couldn’t sell reefers; the dope squad detectives were
too familiar with me. I was a true hustler—uneducated, unskilled
at anything honorable, and I considered myself nervy and cun-
ning enough to live by my wits, exploiting any prey that pre-
sented itself. I would risk just about anything.

Right now, in every big city ghetto, tens of thousands of
yesterday’s and today’s school dropouts are keeping body and
soul together by some form of hustling in the same way I did.

Lil

112 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

And they inevitably move into more and more, worse and worse,
illegality and immorality. Full-time hustlers never can relax to
appraise what they are doing and where they are bound. As is
the case in any jungle, the hustler’s every waking hour is lived
with both the practical and the subconscious knowledge that if
he ever relaxes, if he ever slows down, the other hungry, restless
foxes, ferrets, wolves, and vultures out there with him won’t
hesitate to make him their prey.

During the next six to eight months, I pulled my first robberies
and stick-ups. Only small ones. Always in other, nearby cities.
And I got away. As the pros did, I too would key myself to pull
these jobs by my first use of hard dope. I began with Sammy’s
recommendation—sniffing cocaine.

Normally now, for street wear, I might call it, I carried a hardly
noticeable little flat, blue-steel .25 automatic. But for working, I
carried a .32, a .38 or a .45. I saw how when the eyes stared at
the big black hole, the faces fell slack and the mouths sagged
open. And when I spoke, the people seemed to hear as though
they were far away, and they would do whatever I asked.

Between jobs, staying high on narcotics kept me from getting
nervous. Still, upon sudden impulses, just to play safe, I would
abruptly move from one to another fifteen- to twenty-dollar-a-
week room, always in my favorite 147th-150th Street area, just
flanking Sugar Hill.

Once on a job with Sammy, we had a pretty close call. Some-
one must have seen us. We were making our getaway, running,
when we heard the sirens. Instantly, we slowed to walking. As a
police car screeched to a stop, we stepped out into the street,
meeting it, hailing it to ask for directions. They must have thought
we were about to give them some information. They just cursed
us and raced on. Again, it didn’t cross the white men’s minds that
a trick like that might be pulled on them by Negroes.

The suits that I wore, the finest, I bought hot for about thirty-
five to fifty dollars. I made it my rule never to go after more
than I needed to live on. Any experienced hustler will tell you
that getting greedy is the quickest road to prison. I kept ‘‘cased’’
in my head vulnerable places and situations and I would perform
the next job only when my bankroll in my pocket began to get
too low.

Some weeks, I bet large amounts on the numbers. I still played

HUSTLER 113

with the same runner with whom I’d started in Small’s Paradise.
Playing my hunches, many a day I’d have up to forty dollars on
two numbers, hoping for that fabulous six hundred-to-one pay-
off. But I never did hit a big number full force. There’s no telling
what I would have done if ever I’d landed $10,000 or $12,000
at one time. Of course, once in a while I’d hit a small combi-
nation figure. Sometimes, flush like that, I’d telephone Sophia
to come over from Boston for a couple of days.

I went to the movies a lot again. And I never missed my
musician friends wherever they were playing, either in Harlem,
downtown at the big theaters, or on 52nd Street.

Reginald and I got very close the next time his ship came back
into New York. We discussed our family, and what a shame it
was that our book-loving oldest brother Wilfred had never had
the chance to go to some of those big universities where he
would have gone far. And we exchanged thoughts we had never
shared with anyone.

Reginald, in his quiet way, was a mad fan of musicians and
music. When his ship sailed one morning without him, a principal
reason was that I had thoroughly exposed him to the exciting
musical world. We had wild times backstage with the musicians
when they were playing the Roxy, or the Paramount. After selling
reefers with the bands as they traveled, I was known to almost
every popular Negro musician around New York in 1944-1945.

Reginald and I went to the Savoy Ballroom, the Apollo The-
ater, the Braddock Hotel bar, the nightclubs and speakeasies,
wherever Negroes played music. The great Lady Day, Billie
Holiday, hugged him and called him ‘‘baby brother.’’ Reginald
shared tens of thousands of Negroes’ feelings that the living end
of the big bands was Lionel Hampton’s. I was very close to
many of the men in Hamp’s band; I imtroduced Reginald to
them, and also to Hamp himself, and Hamp’s wife and business
manager, Gladys Hampton. One of this world’s sweetest people
is Hamp. Anyone who knows him will tell you that he’d often
do the most generous things for people he barely knew. As much
money as Hamp has made, and still makes, he would be broke
today if his money and his business weren’t handled by Gladys,
who is one of the brainiest women I ever met. The Apollo The-
ater’s owner, Frank Schiffman, could tell you. He generally
signed bands to play for a set weekly amount, but I know that

114. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

once during those days Gladys Hampton instead arranged a deal
for Hamp’s band to play for a cut of the gate. Then the usual
number of shows was doubled up—if I’m not mistaken, eight
shows a day, instead of the usual four—and Hamp’s pulling
power cleaned up. Gladys Hampton used to talk to me a lot, and
she tried to give me good advice: ‘“Calm down, Red.’’ Gladys
saw how wild I was. She saw me headed toward a bad end.

One of the things I liked about Reginald was that when I left
him to go away ‘‘working,’’ Reginald asked me no questions.
After he came to Harlem, I went on more jobs than usual. I
guess that what influenced me to get my first actual apartment
was my not wanting Reginald to be knocking around Harlem
without anywhere to call ‘‘home.’’ That first apartment was
three rooms, for a hundred dollars a month, I think, in the front
basement of a house on 147th Street between Convent and St.
Nicholas Avenues. Living in the rear basement apartment, nght
behind Reginald and me, was one of Harlem’s most successful
narcotics dealers.

With the apartment as our headquarters, I gradually got
Reginald introduced around to Creole Bill’s, and other Harlem
after-hours spots. About two o’clock every moming, as the
downtown white nightclubs closed, Reginald and I would stand
around in front of this or that Harlem after-hours place, and I’d
school him to what was happening.

Especially after the nightclubs downtown closed, the taxis and
black limousines would be driving uptown, bringing those white
people who never could get enough of Negro soul. The places
popular with these whites ranged all the way from the big locally
famous ones such as Jimmy’s Chicken Shack, and Dickie Wells’,
to the little here-tonight-gone-tomorrow-night private clubs, so-
called, where a dollar was collected at the door for ‘‘member-
ship.”’

Inside every after-hours spot, the smoke would hurt your eyes.
Four white people to every Negro would be in there drinking
whisky from coffee cups and eating fried chicken. The generally
flush-faced white men and their makeup-masked, glittery-eyed
women would be pounding each other’s backs and uproariously
laughing and applauding the music. A lot of the whites, drunk,
would go staggering up to Negroes, the waiters, the owners, or
Negroes at tables, wringing their hands, even trying to hug them,

HUSTLER 115

‘*You’re just as good as I am—I want you to know that!’’ The
most famous places drew both Negro and white celebrities who
enjoyed each other. A jam-packed four-thirty A.M. crowd at
Jimmy’s Chicken Shack or Dickie Wells’ might have such jam-
session entertainment as Hazel Scott playing the piano for Billie
Holiday singing the blues. Jimmy’s Chicken Shack, inciden-
tally, was where once, later on, I worked briefly as a waiter.
That’s where Redd Foxx was the dishwasher who kept the
kitchen crew in stitches.

After a while, my brother Reginald had to have a hustle, and
I gave much thought to what would be, for him, a good, safe
hustle. After he’d learned his own way around, it would be up
to him to take risks for himself—if he wanted to make more and
quicker money.

The hustle I got Reginald into really was very simple. It uti-
lized the psychology of the ghetto jungle. Downtown, he paid
the two dollars, or whatever it was, for a regular city peddler’s
license. Then I took him to a manufacturers’ outlet where we
bought a supply of cheap imperfect “‘seconds’’—shirts, under-
wear, cheap rings, watches, all kinds of quick-sale items.

Watching me work this hustle back in Harlem, Reginald
quickly caught on to how to go into barbershops, beauty parlors,
and bars acting very nervous as he let the customers peep into
his small valise of ‘‘loot.’’ With so many thieves around anxious
to get nid of stolen good-quality merchandise cheaply, many
Harlemites, purely because of this conditioning, jumped to pay
hot prices for inferior goods whose sale was perfectly legitimate.
It never took long to get nd of a valiseful for at least twice what
it had cost. And if any cop stopped Reginald, he had in his
pocket both the peddler’s license and the manufacturers’ outlet
bills of sale. Reginald only had to be certain that none of the
customers to whom he sold ever saw that he was legitimate.

I assumed that Reginald, like most of the Negroes I knew,
would go for a white woman. I’d point out Negro-happy white
women to him, and explain that a Negro with any brains could
wrap these women around his fingers. But I have to say this for
Reginald: he never liked white women. I remember the one time
he met Sophia; he was so cool it upset Sophia, and it tickled me.

Reginald got himself a black woman. I’d guess she was push-
ing thirty; an ‘‘old settler,’’ as we called them back in those

116 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

days. She was a waitress in an exclusive restaurant downtown.
She lavished on Reginald everything she had, she was so happy
to get a young man. I mean she bought him clothes, cooked and
washed for him, and everything, as though he were a baby.

That was just another example of why my respect for my
younger brother kept increasing. Reginald showed, in often sur-
prising ways, more sense than a lot of working hustlers twice
his age. Reginald then was only sixteen, but, a six-footer, he
looked and acted much older than his years.

All through the war, the Harlem racial picture never was too
bright. Tension built to a pretty high pitch. Old-timers told me
that Harlem had never been the same since the 1935 riot, when
millions of dollars worth of damage was done by thousands of
Negroes, infuriated chiefly by the white merchants in Harlem
refusing to hire a Negro even as their stores raked in Harlem’s
money.

During World War II, Mayor LaGuardia officially closed the
Savoy Ballroom. Harlem said the real reason was to stop Ne-
groes from dancing with white women. Harlem said that no one
dragged the white women in there. Adam Clayton Powell made
it a big fight. He had successfully fought Consolidated Edison
and the New York Telephone Company until they had hired
Negroes. Then he had helped to battle the U.S. Navy and the
U.S. Army about their segregating of uniformed Negroes. But
Powell couldn’t win this battle. City Hall kept the Savoy closed
for a long time. It was just another one of the “‘liberal North’’
actions that didn’t help Harlem to love the white man any.

Finally, rumor flashed that in the Braddock Hotel, white cops
had shot a Negro soldier. J was walking down St. Nicholas
Avenue; I saw all of these Negroes hollering and running north
from 125th Street. Some of them were loaded down with armfuls
of stuff. I remember it was the bandleader Fletcher Henderson’s
nephew ‘‘Shorty’’ Henderson who told me what had happened.
Negroes were smashing store windows, and taking everything
they could grab-and carry—fumniture, food, jewelry, clothes,
whisky. Within an hour, every New York City cop seemed to
be in Harlem. Mayor LaGuardia and the NAACP’s then Sec-
retary, the famed late Walter White, were in a red firecar, riding

HUSTLER 117

around pleading over a loudspeaker to all of those shouting,
milling, angry Negroes to please go home and stay inside.

Just recently I ran into Shorty Henderson on Seventh Avenue.
We were laughing about a fellow whom the not had left with
the nickname of ‘‘Left Feet.’’ In a scramble in a women’s shoe
store, somehow he’d grabbed five shoes, all of them for left
feet! And we laughed about the scared little Chinese whose res-
taurant didn’t have a hand laid on it, because the rioters just
about convulsed laughing when they saw the sign the Chinese
had hastily stuck on his front door: ‘‘Me Colored Too.”’

After the riot, things got very tight in Harlem. It was terrible
for the night-life people, and for those hustlers whose main in-
come had been the white man’s money. The 1935 not had left
only a relative trickle of the money which had poured into Har-
lem during the 1920’s. And now this new riot ended even that
trickle.

Today the white people who visit Harlem, and this mostly on
weekend nights, are hardly more than a few dozen who do the
twist, the frug, the Watusi, and all the rest of the current dance
crazes in Small’s Paradise, owned now by the great basketball
champion ‘‘Wilt the Stilt’’ Chamberlain, who draws crowds with
his big, clean, All-American-athlete image. Most white people
today are physically afraid to come to Harlem—and it’s for good
reasons, too. Even for Negroes, Harlem night life is about fin-
ished. Most of the Negroes who have money to spend are spend-
ing it downtown somewhere in this hypocritical ‘‘integration,”’
in places where previously the police would have been called to
haul off any Negro insane enough to try and get in. The already
Croesus-rich white man can’t get another skyscraper hotel fin-
ished and opened before all these integration-mad Negroes, who
themselves don’t own a tool shed, are booking the swanky new
hotel for ‘‘cotillions’’ and ‘‘conventions.’’ Those rich whites
could afford it when they used to throw away their money in
Harlem. But Negroes can’t afford to be taking their money
downtown to the white man.

Sammy and I, on a robbery job, got a bad scare, a very close
call.

Things had grown so tight in Harlem that some hustlers had
been forced to go to work. Even some prostitutes had gotten

118 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

jobs as domestics, and cleaning office buildings at night. The
pimping was so poor, Sammy had gone on the job with me. We
had selected one of those situations considered ‘‘impossible.’’
But wherever people think that, the guards will unconsciously
grow gradually more relaxed, until sometimes those can be the
easiest jobs of all.

But right in the middle of the act, we had some bad luck. A
bullet grazed Sammy. We just barely escaped.

Sammy fortunately wasn’t really hurt. We split up, which was
always wise to do.

Just before daybreak, I went to Sammy’s apartment. His new-
est woman, one of those beautiful but hot-headed Spanish Ne-
groes, was in there crying and carrying on over Sammy. She
went for me, screaming and clawing; she knew I’d been in on
it with him. I fended her off. Not able to figure out why Sammy
didn’t shut her up, I did . . . and from the corner of my eye, I
saw Sammy going for his gun.

Sammy’s reaction that way to my hitting his woman—close
as he and I were—was the only weak spot I’d ever glimpsed.
The woman screamed and dove for him. She knew as I did that
when your best friend draws a gun on you, he usually has lost
all control of his emotions, and he intends to shoot. She dis-
tracted Sammy long enough for me to bolt through the door.
Sammy chased me, about a block.

We soon made up—on the surface. But things never are fully
right again with anyone you have seen trying to kill you.

Intuition told us that we had better lay low for a good while.
The worst thing was that we’d been seen. The police in that
nearby town had surely circulated our general descriptions.

I just couldn’t forget that incident over Sammy’s woman. I
came to rely more and more upon my brother Reginald as the
only one in my world I could completely trust.

Reginald was lazy, I’d discovered that. He had quit his hustle
altogether. But I didn’t mind that, really, because one could be
as lazy as he wanted, if he would only use his head, as Reginald
was doing. He had left my apartment by now. He was living off
his ‘‘old settler’ woman—when he was in town. I had also
taught Reginald how he could work a little while for a railroad,
then use his identification card to travel for nothing—and Regi-
nald loved to travel. Several times, he had gone visiting all

HUSTLER 119

around, among our brothers and sisters. They had now begun
to scatter to different cities. In Boston, Reginald was closer to
our sister Mary than to Ella, who had been my favorite. Both
Reginald and Mary were quiet types, and Ella and I were extro-
verts. And Shorty in Boston had given my brother a royal tume.

Because of my reputation, it was easy for me to get into the
numbers racket. That was probably Harlem’s only hustle which
hadn’t slumped in business. In return for a favor to some white
mobster, my new boss and his wife had just been given a six-
months numbers banking privilege for the Bronx railroad area
called Motthaven Yards. The white mobsters had the numbers
racket split into specific areas. A designated area would be as-
signed to someone for a specified period of time. My boss’s
wife had been Dutch Schultz’s secretary in the 1930’s, during
the time when Schultz had strong-armed his way into control of
the Harlem numbers business.

My job now was to ride a bus across the George Washington
Bridge where a fellow was waiting for me to hand him a bag of
numbers betting slips. We never spoke. I’d cross the street and
catch the next bus back to Harlem. I never knew who that fellow
was. I never knew who picked up the betting money for the slips
that I handled. You didn’t ask questions in the rackets.

My boss’s wife and Gladys Hampton were the only two
women I ever met in Harlem whose business ability I really
respected. My boss’s wife, when she had the time and the in-
clination to talk, would tell me many interesting things. She
would talk to me about the Dutch Schultz days—about deals that
she had known, about graft paid to officials—rookie cops and
shyster lawyers nght on up into the top levels of police and
politics. She knew from personal experience how crime existed
only to the degree that the law cooperated with it. She showed
me how, in the country’s entire social, political and economic
structure, the criminal, the law, and the politicians were actually
inseparable partners.

It was at this time that I changed from my old numbers man,
the one I’d used since I first worked in Small’s Paradise. He
hated to lose a heavy player, but he readily understood why I
would now want to play with a runner of my own outfit. That
was how I began placing my bets with West Indian Archie. I’ve
mentioned him before—one of Harlem’s really bad Negroes;

120 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

one of those former Dutch Schultz strong-arm men around Har-
lem.

West Indian Archie had finished time in Sing Sing not long
before I came to Harlem. But my boss’s wife had hired him not
just because she knew him from the old days. West Indian Ar-
chie had the kind of photographic memory that put him among
the elite of numbers runners. He never wrote down your num-
ber; even in the case of combination plays, he would just nod.
He was able to file all the numbers in his head, and write them
down for the banker only when he turned in his money. This
made him the ideal runner because cops could never catch him
with any betting slips.

I’ve often reflected upon such black veteran numbers men as
West Indian Archie. If they had lived in another kind of society,
their exceptional mathematical talents might have been better
used. But they were black.

Anyway, it was status just to be known as a client of West
Indian Archie’s, because he handled only sizable bettors. He
also required integrity and sound credit: it wasn’t necessary that
you pay as you played; -you could pay West Indian Archie by
the week. He always carried a couple of thousand dollars on
him, his own money. If a client came up to him and said he’d
hit for some moderate amount, say a fifty-cent or one-dollar
combination, West Indian Archie would peel off the three or six
hundred dollars, and later get his money back from the banker.

Every weekend, I’d pay my bill—anywhere from fifty to even
one hundred dollars, if I had really plunged on some hunch.
And when, once or twice, I did hit, always just some combi-
nation, as I’ve described, West Indian Archie paid me off from
his own roll.

The six months finally ended for my boss and his wife. They
had done well. Their runners got nice tips, and promptly were
snatched up by other bankers. I continued working for my boss
and his wife in a gambling house they opened.

A Harlem madam I’d come to know—through having done a
friend of hers a favor—introduced me to a special facet of the
Harlem night world, something which the riot had only inter-
rupted. It was the world where, behind locked doors, Negroes
catered to monied white people’s weird sexual tastes.

HUSTLER 121

The whites I’d known loved to rub shoulders publicly with
black folks in the after-hours clubs and speakeasies. These, on
the other hand, were whites who did not want it known that they
had been anywhere near Harlem. The riot had made these ex-
clusive white customers nervous. Their slipping into and about
Harlem hadn’t been so noticeable when other whites were also
around. But now they would be conspicuous; they also feared
the recently aroused anger of Harlem Negroes. So the madam
was safeguarding her growing operation by offering me a steer-
er’s job.

During the war, it was extremely difficult to get a telephone.
One day the madam told me to stay at my apartment the next
moming. She talked to somebody. I don’t know who it was, but
before the next noon, I dialed the madam from my own tele-
phone—unlisted.

This madam was a specialist in her field. If her own girls
could not—or would not—accommodate a customer, she would
send me to another place, usually an apartment somewhere else
in Harlem, where the requested “‘specialty’’ was done.

My post for picking up the customers was right outside the
Astor Hotel, that always-busy northwest comer of 45th Street
and Broadway. Watching the moving traffic, I was soon able to
spot the taxi, car, or limousine—even before it slowed down—
with the anxious white faces peering out for the tall, reddish-
brown-complexioned Negro wearing a dark suit, or raincoat,
with a white flower in his lapel.

If they were in a private car, unless it was chauffeured I would
take the wheel and drive where we were going. But if they were
in a taxi, I would always tell the cabbie, ‘“The Apollo Theater
in Harlem, please,’’ since among New York City taxis a certain
percentage are driven by cops. We would get another cab—
driven by a black man—and I’d give him the right address.

As soon as I got that party settled, I’d telephone the madam.
She would generally have me rush by taxi right back downtown
to be on the 45th Street and Broadway comer at a specified time.
Appointments were strictly punctual; rarely was I on the comer
as much as five minutes. And I knew how to keep moving about
sO as not to attract the attention of any vice squad plainclothes-
men or uniformed cops.

With tips, which were often heavy, sometimes I would make

122 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

over a hundred dollars a night steering up to ten customers in a
party—to see anything, to do anything, to have anything done
to them, that they wanted. I hardly ever knew the identities of
my customers, but the few I did recognize, or whose names I
happened to hear, remind me now of the Profumo case in En-
gland. The English are not far ahead of rich and influential
Americans when it comes to seeking rarities and oddities.

Rich men, middle-aged and beyond, men well past their
prime: these weren’t college boys, these were their Ivy League
fathers. Even grandfathers, I guess. Society leaders. Big politi-
cians. Tycoons. Important friends from out of town. City gov-
ermment big shots. All kinds of professional people. Star
performing artists. Theatrical and Hollywood celebrities. And,
of course, racketeers.

Harlem was their sin-den, their fleshpot. They stole off among
taboo black people, and took off whatever antiseptic, important,
dignified masks they wore in their white world. These were men
who could afford to spend large amounts of money for two,
three, or four hours indulging their strange appetites.

But in this black-white nether world, nobody judged the cus-
tomers. Anything they could name, anything they could imag-
ine, anything they could describe, they could do, or could have
done to them, just as long as they paid.

In the Profumo case in England, Christine Keeler’s friend
testified that some of her customers wanted to be whipped. One
of my main steers to one specialty address away from the mad-
am’s house was the apartment of a big, coal-black girl, strong
as an ox, with muscles like a dockworker’s. A funny thing, it
generally was the oldest of these white men—in their sixties, I
know, some maybe in their seventies—they couldn’t seem to
recover quickly enough from their last whipping so they could
have me meet them again at 45th and Broadway to take them
back to that apartment, to cringe on their knees and beg and cry
out for mercy under that black girl’s whip. Some of them would
pay me extra to come and watch them being beaten. That girl
greased her big Amazon body all over to look shinier and
blacker. She used small, plaited whips, she would draw blood,
and she was making herself a small fortune off those old white
men.

I wouldn't tell all the things I’ve seen. I used to wonder, later

HUSTLER 123

on, when I was in prison, what a psychiatrist would make of it
all. And so many of these men held responsible positions; they
exercised guidance, influence, and authority over others.

In prison later, I’d think, too, about another thing. Just about
all of those whites specifically expressed as their preference
black, black, ‘‘the blacker the better!’’ The madam, having long
since learned this, had in her house nothing but the blackest
accommodating women she could find.

In all of my time in Harlem, I never saw a white prostitute
touched by a white man. White girls were in some of the various
Harlem specialty places. They would participate in customers’
most frequent exhibition requests—a sleek, black Negro male
having a white woman. Was this the white man wanting to wit-
ness his deepest sexual fear? A few times, I even had parties
that included white women whom the men had brought with
them to watch this. I never steered any white women other than
in these instances, brought by their own men, or who had been
put into contact with me by a white Lesbian whom I knew, who
was another variety of specialty madam.

This Lesbian, a beautiful white woman, had a male Negro sta-
ble. Her vocabulary was all profanity. She supplied Negro males,
on order, to well-to-do white women.

I’d seen this Lesbian and her blonde girl friend around Harlem,
drinking and talking at bars, always with young Negroes. No one
who didn’t know would ever guess that the Lesbian was recruiting.
But one night I gave her and her girl friend some reefers which
they said were the best they’d ever smoked. They lived in a hotel
downtown, and after that, now and then, they would call me, and
I would bring them some reefers, and we’d talk.

She told me how she had accidentally gotten started in her
specialty. As a Harlem habitué, she had known Harlem Negroes
who liked white women. Her role developed from a pattern of
talk she often heard from bored, well-to-do white women where
she worked, in an East Side beauty salon. Hearing the women
complain about sexually inadequate mates, she would tell what
she’d “‘heard’’ about Negro men. Observing how excited some
of the women seemed to become, she finally arranged some
dates with some of the Harlem Negroes she knew at her own
apartment.

Eventually, she rented three midtown apartments where a

124 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

woman customer could meet a Negro by appointment. Her cus-
tomers recommended her service to their friends. She quit the
beauty salon, set up a messenger Service as an operating front,
and ran all of her business by telephone.

She had also noticed the color preference. I never could sub-
stitute in an emergency, she would tell me with a laugh, because
I was too light. She told me that nearly every white woman in
her clientele would specify ‘‘a black one’’; sometimes they
would say ‘‘a real one,’’ meaning black, no brown Negroes, no
red Negroes.

The Lesbian thought up her messenger service idea because
some of her trade wanted the Negroes to come to their homes,
at times carefully arranged by telephone. These women lived in
neighborhoods of swank brownstones and exclusive apartment
houses, with doormen dressed like admirals. But white society
never thinks about challenging any Negro in a servant role.
Doormen would telephone up and hear ‘‘Oh, yes, send him right
up, James’’; service elevators would speed those neatly dressed
Negro messenger boys right up—so that they could ‘‘deliver’’
what had been ordered by some of the most privileged white
women in Manhattan.

The irony is that those white women had no more respect for
those Negroes than white men have had for the Negro women
they have been “‘using’’ since slavery times. And, in turn, Ne-
groes have no respect for the whites they get into bed with. I
know the way I felt about Sophia, who still came to New York
whenever I called her.

The West Indian boy friend of the Profumo scandal’s Chris-
tine Keeler, Lucky Gordon, and his friends must have felt the
same way. After England’s leaders had been with those white
girls, those girls, for their satisfaction, went to Negroes, to smoke
reefers and make fun of some of England’s greatest peers as
cuckolds and fools. I don’t doubt that Lucky Gordon knows the
identity of ‘‘the man in the mask’’ and much more. If Gordon
told everything those white girls told him, he would give En-
gland a new scandal.

It’s no different from what happens in some of America’s
topmost white circles. Twenty years ago, I saw them nightly,
with my own eyes, I heard them with my own ears.

The hypocritical white man will talk about the Negro’s ‘‘low

HUSTLER 125

morals.’’ But who has the world’s lowest morals if not whites?
And not only that, but the “‘upper-class’’ whites! Recently, de-
tails were published about a group of suburban New York City
white housewives and mothers operating as a professional call-
girl ring. In some cases, these wives were out prostituting with
the agreement, even the cooperation, of husbands, some of
whom even waited at home, attending the children. And the
customers—to quote a major New York City moming newspa-
per: ‘‘Some 16 ledgers and books with names of 200 Johns,
many important social, financial and political figures, were
seized in the raid Friday night.’’

I have also read recently about groups of young white couples
who get together, the husbands throw their house keys into a
hat, then, blindfolded, the husbands draw out a key and spend
the night with the wife that the house key matches. I have never
heard of anything like that being done by Negroes, even Ne-
groes who live in the worst ghettoes and alleys and gutters.

Early one morning in Harlem, a tall, light Negro wearing a
hat and with a woman’s stocking drawn down over his face held
up a Negro bartender and manager who were counting up the
night’s receipts. Like most bars in Harlem, Negroes fronted,
and a Jew really owned the place. To get a license, one had to
know somebody in the State Liquor Authority, and Jews work-
ing with Jews seemed to have the best S.L.A. contacts. The
black manager hired some Negro hoodlums to go hunting for
the hold-up man. And the man’s description caused them to
include me among their suspects. About daybreak that same
morning, they kicked in the door of my apartment.

I told them I didn’t know a thing about it, that I hadn’t had a
thing to do with whatever they were talking about. I told them
I had been out on my hustle, steering, until maybe four in the
morning, and then I had come straight to my apartment and gone
to bed.

The strong-arm thugs were bluffing. They were trying to flush
out the man who had done it. They still had other suspects to
check out—that’s all that saved me.

J put on my clothes and took a taxi and I woke up two people,
the madam, then Sammy. I had some money, but the madam
gave me some more, and I told Sammy I was going to see my

126 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

brother Philbert in Michigan. I gave Sammy the address, so that
he could let me know when things got straightened out.

This was the trip to Michigan in the wintertime when I put
congolene on my head, then discovered that the bathroom sink’s
pipes were frozen. To keep the lye from burning up my scalp,
I had to stick my head into the stool and flush and flush to rinse
out the stuff.

A week passed in frigid Michigan before Sammy’s telegram
came. Another red Negro had confessed, which enabled me to
live in Harlem again.

But I didn’t go back into steering. I can’t member why I didn’t.
I imagine I must have felt like staying away from hustling for a
while, going to some of the clubs at night, and narcotizing with
my friends. Anyway, I just never went back to the madam’s job.

It was at about this time, too, I remember, that I began to be
sick. I had colds all the time. It got to be a steady irritation,
always sniffling and wiping my nose, all day, all night. I stayed
so high that I was in a dream world. Now, sometimes, I smoked
opium with some white frends, actors who lived downtown.
And I smoked more reefers than ever before. I didn’t smoke the
usual wooden-match-sized sticks of marijuana. I was so far gone
by now that I smoked it almost by the ounce.

After awhile, I worked downtown for a Jew. He liked me
because of something I had managed to do for him. He bought
rundown restaurants and bars. Hymie was his name. He would
remodel these places, then stage a big, gala reopening, with ban-
ners and a spotlight outside. The jam-packed, busy place with the
big ‘‘Under New Management’’ sign in the window would attract
speculators, usually other Jews who were around looking for some-
thing to invest money in. Sometimes even in the week of the new
opening, Hymie would re-sell, at a good profit.

Hymie really liked me, and I liked him. He loved to talk. I
loved to listen. Half his talk was about Jews and Negroes. Jews
who had anglicized their names were Hymie’s favorite hate.
Spitting and curling his mouth in scorn, he would reel off names
of people he said had done this. Some of them were famous
names whom most people never thought of as Jews.

‘“Red, I’m a Jew and you’re black,’’ he would say. ‘‘These

HUSTLER 127

Gentiles don’t like either one of us. If the Jew wasn’t smarter
than the Gentile, he’d get treated worse than your people.”’

Hymie paid me good money while I was with him, sometimes
two hundred and three hundred dollars a week. I would have
done anything for Hymie. I did do all kinds of things. But my
main job was transporting bootleg liquor that Hymie supplied,
usually to those spruced-up bars which he had sold to someone.

Another fellow and I would drive out to Long Island where a
big bootleg whisky outfit operated. We’d take with us cartons
of empty bonded whisky bottles that were saved illegally by bars
we supplied. We would buy five-gallon containers of bootleg,
funnel it into the bottles, then deliver, according to Hymie’s
instructions, this or that many crates back to the bars.

Many people claiming they drank only such-and-such a brand
couldn’t tell their only brand from pure week-old Long Island
bootleg. Most ordinary whisky drinkers are ““brand’’ chumps like
this. On the side, with Hymie’s approval, I was myself at that time
supplying some lesser quantities of bootleg to reputable Harlem
bars, as well as to some of the few speakeasies still in Harlem.

But one weekend on Long Island, something happened in-
volving the State Liquor Authority. One of New York State’s
biggest recent scandals has been the exposure of wholesale
S.L.A. graft and corruption. In the bootleg racket I was involved
in, someone high up must have been taken for a real pile. A
rumor about some “‘inside’’ tipster spread among Hymie and
the others. One day Hymie didn’t show up where he had told
me to meet him. I never heard from him again . . . but I did
hear that he was put in the ocean and I knew he couldn’t swim.

Up in the Bronx, a Negro held up some Italian racketeers in
a floating crap game. I heard about it on the wire. Whoever did
it, aside from being a fool, was said to be a ‘‘tall, light-skinned’’
Negro, masked with a woman’s stocking. It has always made
me wonder if that bar stickup had really been solved, or if the
wrong man had confessed under beatings. But, anyway, the past
suspicion of me helped to revive suspicion of me again.

Up in Fat Man’s Bar on the hill overlooking the Polo Grounds,
I had just gone into a telephone booth. Everyone in the bar—all
over Harlem, in fact—was drinking up, excited about the news
that Branch Rickey, the Brooklyn Dodgers’ owner, had just

128 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

signed Jackie Robinson to play in major league baseball, with
the Dodgers’ farm team in Montreal—which would place the
time in the fall of 1945.

Earlier in the afternoon, I had collected from West Indian
Archie for a fifty-cent combination bet; he had paid me three
hundred dollars right out of his pocket. I was telephoning Jean
Parks. Jean was one of the most beautiful women who ever lived
in Harlem. She once sang with Sarah Vaughan in the Bluebon-
nets, a quartet that sang with Earl Hines. For a long time, Jean
and I had enjoyed a standing, friendly deal that we’d go out and
celebrate when either of us hit the numbers. Since my last hit,
Jean had treated me twice, and we laughed on the phone, glad
that now I’d treat her to a night out. We arranged to go to a 52nd
Street nightclub to hear Billie Holiday, who had been on the
road and was just back in New York.

As I hung up, I spotted the two lean, tough-looking paisanos
gazing in at me cooped up in the booth.

I didn’t need any intuition. And I had no gun. A cigarette case
was the only thing in my pocket. I started easing my hand down
into my pocket, to try bluffing . . . and one of them snatched
open the door. They were dark olive, swarthy-featured Italians.
I had my hand down into my pocket.

‘‘Come on outside, we’ll hold court,’’ one said.

At that moment, a cop walked through the front door. The
two thugs slipped out. I never in my life have been so glad to
see a cop.

I was still shaking when I got to the apartment of my friend,
Sammy the Pimp. He told me that not long before, West Indian
Archie had been there looking for me.

Sometimes, recalling all of this, I don’t know, to tell the truth,
how I am alive to tell it today. They say God takes care of fools
and babies. I’ve so often thought that Allah was watching over
me. Through all of this time of my life, I really was dead—
mentally dead. I just didn’t know that I was.

Anyway, to kill time, Sammy and I sniffed some of his co-
caine, until the time came to pick up Jean Parks, to go down
and hear Lady Day. Sammy’s having told me about West Indian
Archie looking for me didn’t mean a thing . . . not right then.

CHAPTER EIGHT
TRAPPED

There was the knocking at the door. Sammy, lying on his bed
in pajamas and a bathrobe, called ‘‘Who?”’

When West Indian Archie answered, Sammy slid the round,
two-sided shaving mirror under the bed, with what little of the
cocaine powder—or crystals, actually—was left, and I opened
the door.

‘**Red—I want my money!”’

A .32-20 is a funny kind of gun. It’s bigger than a .32. But
it’s not as big as a .38. I had faced down some dangerous Ne-
groes. But no one who wasn’t ready to die messed with West
Indian Archie.

I couldn’t believe it. He truly scared me. I was so incredulous
at what was happening that it was hard to form words with my
brain and my mouth.

‘*‘Man—what’s the beef?”’

West Indian Archie said he’d thought I was trying something
when I’d told him I’d hit, but he’d paid me the three hundred
dollars until he could double-check his written betting slips; and,
as he’d thought, I hadn’t combinated the number I’d claimed,
but another.

‘*Man, you’re crazy!’’ J talked fast; I’d seen out of the corner
of my eye Sammy’s hand easing under his pillow where he kept
his Army .45. ‘‘Archie, smart a man as you’re supposed to be,
you’d pay somebody who hadn’t hit?’’

The .32-20 moved, and Sammy froze. West Indian Archie
told him, ‘‘I ought to shoot you through the ear.’’ And he looked
back at me. ‘‘You don’t have my money?’’

129

130 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I must have shaken my head.

‘‘T’ll give you until twelve o’clock tomorrow..’’

And he put his hand behind him and pulled open the door.
He backed out, and slammed it.

It was a classic hustler-code impasse. The money wasn’t the
problem. I still had about two hundred dollars of it. Had money
been the issue, Sammy could have made up the difference; if it
wasn’t in his pocket, his women could quickly have raised it.
West Indian Archie himself, for that matter, would have loaned
me three hundred dollars if I’d ever asked him, as many thou-
sands of dollars of mine as he’d gotten ten percent of. Once, in
fact, when he’d heard I was broke, he had looked me up and
handed me some money and grunted, ‘‘Stick this in your
pocket.”’

The issue was the position which his action had put us both
into. For a hustler in our sidewalk jungle world, “‘face’’ and
‘“‘honor’’ were important. No hustler could have it known that
he’d been ‘‘hyped,’’ meaning outsmarted or made a fool of.
And worse, a hustler could never afford to have it demonstrated
that he could be bluffed, that he could be frightened by a threat,
that he lacked nerve.

West Indian Archie knew that some young hustlers rose in
stature in our world when they somehow hoodwinked older hus-
tlers, the put it on the wire for everyone to hear. He believed
I was trying that.

In turn, I knew he would be protecting his stature by broad-
casting all over the wire his threat to me.

Because of this code, in my time in Harlem I’d personally
known a dozen hustlers who, threatened, left town, disgraced.

Once the wire had it, any retreat by either of us was unthink-
able. The wire would be awaiting the report of the showdown.

I’d also known of at least another dozen showdowns in which
one took the Dead On Arrival ride to the morgue, and the other
went to prison for manslaughter or the electric chair for murder.

Sammy let me hold his .32. My guns were at my apartment. I
put the .32 in my pocket, with my hand on it, and walked out.

I couldn’t stay out of sight. I had to show up at all of my usual
haunts. I was glad that Reginald was out of town. He might

TRAPPED 131

have tried protecting me, and I didn’t want him shot in the head
by West Indian Archie.

I stood awhile on the comer, with my mind confused—the
muddled thinking that’s characteristic of the addict. Was West
Indian Archie, I began to wonder, bluffing a hype on me? To
make fun of me? Some old hustlers did love to hype younger
ones. I knew he wouldn’t do it as some would, just to pick up
three hundred dollars. But everyone was so slick. In this Harlem
jungle people would hype their brothers. Numbers runners often
had hyped addicts who had hit, who were so drugged that, when
challenged, they really couldn’t be sure if they had played a
certain number.

I began to wonder whether West Indian Archie might not be
right. Had I really gotten my combination confused? I certainly
knew the two numbers I’d played; I knew I'd told him to com-
binate only one of them. Had I gotten mixed up about which
number?

Have you ever been so sure you did something that you never
would have thought of it again—unless it was brought up again?
Then you start trying to mentally confirm—and you’ re only about
half-sure?

It was just about time for me to go and pick up Jean Parks, to
go downtown to see Billie at the Onyx Club. So much was
swirling in my head. I thought about telephoning her and calling
it off, making some excuse. But I knew that running now was
the worst thing I could do. So I went on and picked up Jean at
her place. We took a taxi on down to 52nd Street. ‘‘Billie
Holiday’’ and those big photo blow-ups of her were under the
lights outside. Inside, the tables were jammed against the wall,
tables about big enough to get two drinks and four elbows on;
the Onyx was one of those very little places.

Billie, at the microphone, had just finished a number when
she saw Jean and me. Her white gown glittered under the spot-
light, her face had that coppery, Indianish look, and her hair
was in that trademark ponytail. For her next number she did the
one she knew I always liked so: ‘‘You Don’t Know What Love
Is’*—*‘until you face each dawn with sleepless eyes . . . until
you’ve lost a love you hate to lose—”’

When her set was done, Billie came over to our table. She
and Jean, who hadn’t seen each other in a long time, hugged

132 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

each other. Billie sensed something wrong with me. She knew
that I was always high, but she knew me well enough to see that
something else was wrong, and asked in her customary profane
language what was the matter with me. And in my own foul
vocabulary of those days, I pretended to be without a care, so
she let it drop.

We had a picture taken by the club photographer that night.
The three of us were sitting close together. That was the last
time I ever saw Lady Day. She’s dead; dope and heartbreak
stopped that heart as big as a barn and that sound and style that
no one successfully copies. Lady Day sang with the soul of
Negroes from the centuries of sorrow and oppression. What a
shame that proud, fine, black woman never lived where the true
greatness of the black race was appreciated!

In the Onyx Club men’s room, I sniffed the little packet of
cocaine I had gotten from Sammy. Jean and I, riding back up to
Harlem in a cab, decided to have another drink. She had no idea
what was happening when she suggested one of my main hang-
outs, the bar of the La Marr-Cheri on the corner of 147th Street
and St. Nicholas Avenue. I had my gun, and the cocaine cour-
age, and I said okay. And by the time we’d had the drink, I was
so high that I asked Jean to take a cab on home, and she did. I
never have seen Jean again, either.

Like a fool, I didn’t leave the bar. I stayed there, sitting, like
a bigger fool, with my back to the door, thinking about West
Indian Archie. Since that day, I have never sat with my back to
a door—and I never will again. But it’s a good thing I was then.
I’m positive if I'd seen West Indian Archie come in, I’d have
shot to kill.

The next thing I knew West Indian Archie was standing be-
fore me, cursing me, loud, his gun on me. He was really making
his public point, floor-showing for the people. He called me foul
names, threatened me.

Everyone, bartenders and customers, sat or stood as though
carved, drinks in mid-air. The jukebox, in the rear, was going.
I had never seen West Indian Archie high before. Not a whisky
high, I could tell it was something else. I knew the hustlers’
characteristic of keying up on dope to do a job.

I was thinking, “‘I’m going to kill Archie. . . I’m just going
to wait until he turns around—to get the drop on him.”’ I could

TRAPPED 133

feel my own .32 resting against my nbs where it was tucked
under my belt, beneath my coat.

West Indian Archie, seeming to read my mind, quit cursing.
And his words jarred me.

‘*You’re thinking you’re going to kill me first, Red. But I’m
going to give you something to think about. I’m sixty. I’m an old
man. I’ve been to Sing Sing. My life 1s over. You’re a young
man. Kill me, you’re lost anyway. All you can do Is go to prison.”’

I’ve since thought that West Indian Archie may have been
trying to scare me into running, to save both his face and his
life. It may be that’s why he was high. No one knew that I
hadn’t killed anyone, but no one who knew me, including my-
self, would doubt that Id kill.

I can’t guess what might have happened. But under the code,
if West Indian Archie had gone out of the door, after having
humiliated me as he had, I’d have had to follow him out. We’d
have shot it out in the street.

But some friends of West Indian Archie moved up alongside
him, quietly calling his name, “‘Archie . . . Archie.’’

And he let them put their hands on him—and they drew him
aside. I watched them move him past where I was sitting, glaring
at me. They were working him back toward the rear.

Then, taking my time, I got down off the stool. I dropped a
bill on the bar for the bartender. Without looking back, I went
out.

I stood outside, in full view of the bar, with my hand in my
pocket, for perhaps five minutes. When West Indian Archie
didn’t come out, I left.

It must have been five in the moming when, downtown, I
woke up a white actor I knew who lived in the Howard Hotel
on 45th Street, off Sixth Avenue.

I knew I had to stay high.

The amount of dope I put into myself within the next several
hours sounds inconceivable. I got some opium from that fellow.
I took a cab back up to my apartment and I smoked it. My gun
was ready if I heard a mosquito cough.

My telephone rang. It was the white Lesbian who lived down-
town. She wanted me to bring her and her girl friend fifty dollars
worth of reefers.

134 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I felt that if I had always done it, I had to do it now. Opium
had me drowsy. I had a bottle of benzedrine tablets in my bath-
room; I swallowed some of them to perk up. The two drugs
working in me had my head going in opposite directions at the
same time.

I knocked at the apartment right behind mine. The dealer let
me have loose marijuana on credit. He saw I was so high that
he even helped me roll it—a hundred sticks. And while we were
rolling it, we both smoked some.

Now opium, benzedrine, reefers.

I stopped by Sammy’s on the way downtown. His flashing-
eyed Spanish Negro woman opened the door. Sammy had gotten
weak for that woman. He had never let any other of his women
hang around so much; now she was even answering his doorbell.
Sammy was by this time very badly addicted. He seemed hardly
to recognize me. Lying in bed, he reached under and again
brought out that inevitable shaving mirror on which, for some
reason, he always kept his cocaine crystals. He motioned for me
to sniff some. I didn’t refuse.

Going downtown to deliver the reefers, I felt sensations I
cannot describe, in all those different grooves at the same time.
The only word to describe it was a timelessness. A day might
have seemed to me five minutes. Or a half-hour might have
seemed a week.

I can’t imagine how I looked when I got to the hotel. When
the Lesbian and her girl friend saw me, they helped me to a bed;
I fell across it and passed out.

That night, when they woke me up, it was half a day beyond
West Indian Archie’s deadline. Late, I went back uptown. It
was on the wire. I could see people who knew me finding busi-
ness elsewhere. I knew nobody wanted to be caught in a cross-
fire.

But nothing happened. The next day, either. I just stayed
high.

Some raw kid hustler in a bar, I had to bust in his mouth. He
came back, pulling a blade; I would have shot him, but some-
body grabbed him. They put him out, cursing that he was going
to kill me.

Intuition told me to get rid of my gun. I gave a hustler the eye
across the bar. I’d no more than slipped him the gun from my

TRAPPED 135

belt when a cop I’d seen about came in the other door. He had
his hand on his gun butt. He knew what was all over the wire;
he was certain I’d be armed. He came slowly over toward me,
and I knew if I sneezed, he’d blast me down.

He said, “‘Take your hand out of your pocket, Red—real
carefully.’’

I did. Once he saw me empty handed, we both could relax a
little. He motioned for me to walk outside, ahead of him, and I
did. His partner was waiting on the sidewalk, opposite their
patrol car, double-parked with its radio going. With people stop-
ping, looking, they patted me down there on the sidewalk.

‘What are you looking for?’’ I asked them when they didn’t
find anything.

‘*Red, there’s a report you’re carrying a gun.”’

‘TY had one,’’ I said. ‘‘But I threw it in the niver.”’

The one who had come into the bar said, ‘‘I think I’d leave
town if I were you, Red.”’

I went back into the bar. Saying that I had thrown my gun
away had kept them from taking me to my apartment. Things I
had there could have gotten me more time than ten guns, and
could have gotten them a promotion.

Everything was building up, closing in on me. I was trapped
in SO many cross turns. West Indian Archie gunning for me. The
Italians who thought I’d stuck up their crap game after me. The
scared kid hustler I’d hit. The cops.

For four years, up to that point, I’d been lucky enough, or
slick enough, to escape jail, or even getting arrested. Or any
serious trouble. But I knew that any minute now something had
to give

Sammy had done something that I’ve often wished I could
have thanked him for.

When I heard the car’s horn, I was walking on St. Nicholas
Avenue. But my ears were hearing a gun. I didn’t dream the
horn could possibly be for me.

‘“‘Homeboy!”’

I jerked around; I came close to shooting.

Shorty—from Boston!

I’d scared him nearly to death.

‘“‘Daddy-o!”’

136 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I couldn’t have been happier.

Inside the car, he told me Sammy had telephoned about how
I was jammed up tight and told him he’d better come and get
me. And Shorty did his band’s date, then borrowed his piano
man’s car, and bummed up the miles to New York.

I didn’t put up any objections to leaving. Shorty stood watch
outside my apartment. I brought out and stuffed into the car’s
trunk what little stuff I cared to hang on to. Then we hit the
highway. Shorty had been without sleep for about thirty-six
hours. He told me afterward that through just about the whole
ride back, I talked out of my head.

CHAPTER NINE
CAUGHT

Ella couldn’t believe how atheist, how uncouth I had become.
I believed that a man should do anything that he was slick
enough, or bad and bold enough, to do and that a woman was
nothing but another commodity. Every word I spoke was hip or
profane. I would bet that my working vocabulary wasn’t two
hundred words.

Even Shorty, whose apartment I now again shared, wasn’t
prepared for how I lived and thought—like a predatory animal.
Sometimes I would catch him watching me.

At first, I slept a lot—even at night. I had slept mostly in the
daytime during the preceding two years. When awake, I smoked
reefers. Shorty had originally introduced me to marijuana, and
my consumption of it now astounded him.

I didn’t want to talk much, at first. When awake, I’d play
records continuously. The reefers gave me a feeling of content-
ment. I would enjoy hours of floating, day dreaming, imaginary
conversations with my New York musician friends.

Within two weeks, I’d had more sleep than during any two
months when I had been in Harlem hustling day and night. When
I finally went out in the Roxbury streets, it took me only a little
while to locate a peddler of “‘snow’’—cocaine. It was when I got
back into that familiar snow feeling that I began to want to talk.

Cocaine produces, for those who sniff its powdery white crys-
tals, an illusion of supreme well-being, and a soaring over-
confidence in both physical and mental ability. You think you
could whip the heavyweight champion, and that you are smarter
than anybody. There was also that feeling of timelessness. And

137

138 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

there were intervals of ability to recall and review things that
had happened years back with an astonishing clarity.

Shorty’s band played at spots around Boston three or four
nights a week. After he left for work, Sophia would come over
and I’d talk about my plans. She would be gone back to her
husband by the time Shorty returned from work, and I’d bend
his ear until daybreak.

Sophia’s husband had gotten out of the military, and he was
some sort of salesman. He was supposed to have a big deal going
which soon would require his traveling a lot to the West Coast.
I didn’t ask questions, but Sophia often indicated they weren’t
doing too well. I know / had nothing to do with that. He never
dreamed I existed. A white woman might blow up at her hus-
band and scream and yell and call him every name she can think
of, and say the most vicious things in an effort to hurt him, and
talk about his mother and his grandmother, too, but one thing
she never will tell him herself is that she is going with a black
man. That’s one automatic red murder flag to the white man,
and his woman knows it.

Sophia always had given me money. Even when I had hun-
dreds of dollars in my pocket, when she came to Harlem I would
take everything she had short of her train fare back to Boston.
It seems that some women love to be exploited. When they are
not exploited, they exploit the man. Anyway, it was his money
that she gave me, I guess, because she never had worked. But
now my demands on her increased, and she came up with more;
again, I don’t know where she got it. Always, every now and
then, I had given her a hard time, just to keep her in line. Every
once in a while a woman seems to need, in fact wants this, too.
But now, I would feel evil and slap her around worse than ever,
some of the nights when Shorty was away. She would cry, curse
me, and swear that she would never be back. But I knew she
wasn’t even thinking about not coming back.

Sophia’s being around was one of Shorty’s greatest pleasures
about my homecoming. I have said it before, I never in my life
have seen a black man that desired white women as sincerely as
Shorty did. Since I had known him, he had had several. He had
never been able to keep a white woman any length of time,
though, because he was too good to them, and, as I have said,
any woman, white or black, seems to get bored with that.

CAUGHT 139

It happened that Shorty was between white women when one
night Sophia brought to the house her seventeen-year-old sister.
I never saw anything like the way that she and Shorty nearly
jumped for each other. For him, she wasn’t only a white girl,
but a young white girl. For her, he wasn’t only a Negro, but a
Negro musician. In looks, she was a younger version of Sophia,
who still turned heads. Sometimes I’d take the two girls to Negro
places where Shorty played. Negroes showed thirty-two teeth
apiece as soon as they saw the white girls. They would come
over to your booth, or your table; they would stand there and
drool. And Shorty was no better. He’d stand up there playing
and watching that young girl waiting for him, and waving at
him, and winking. As soon as the set was over, he’d practically
run over people getting down to our table.

I didn’t lindy-hop any more now, I wouldn’t even have thought
of it now, just as I wouldn’t have been caught in a zoot suit
now. All of my suits were conservative. A banker might have
worm my shoes.

I met Laura again. We were really glad to see each other. She
was a lot more like me now, a good-time girl. We talked and
laughed. She looked a lot older than she really was. She had no
one man, she free-lanced around. She had long since moved away
from her grandmother. Laura told me she had finished school, but
then she gave up the college idea. Laura was high whenever I saw
her, now, too; we smoked some reefers together.

After about a month of ‘‘laying dead,’’ as inactivity was
called, I knew I had to get some kind of hustle going.

A hustler, broke, needs a stake. Some nights when Shorty
was playing, I would take whatever Sophia had been able to get
for me, and Id try to run it up into something, playing stud
poker at John Hughes’ gambling house.

When I had lived in Roxbury before, John Hughes had been
a big gambler who wouldn’t have spoken to me. But during the
war the Roxbury ‘‘wire’’ had carried a lot about things I was
doing in Harlem, and now the New York name magic was on
me. That was the feeling that hustlers everywhere else had: if
you could hustle and make it in New York, they were well off
to know you; it gave them prestige. Anyway, through the same

140 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

flush war years, John Hughes had hustled profitably enough to
be able to open a pretty good gambling house.

John, one night, was playing in a game I was in. After the
first two cards were dealt around the table, I had an ace showing.
I looked beneath it at my hole card; another ace—a pair, back-
to-back.

My ace showing made it my tur to bet.

But I didn’t rush. I sat there and studied.

Finally, I knocked my knuckles on the table, passing, leaving
the betting to the next man. My action implied that beneath my
ace was some ‘‘nothing’’ card that I didn’t care to risk
my money on.

The player sitting next to me took the bait. He bet pretty
heavily. And the next man raised him. Possibly each of them
had small pairs. Maybe they just wanted to scare me out before
I drew another ace. Finally, the bet reached John, who had a
queen showing; he raised everybody.

Now, there was no telling what John had. John truly was a
clever gambler. He could gamble as well as anybody I had gam-
bled with in New York.

So the bet came back to me. It was going to cost me a lot of
money to call all the raises. Some of them obviously had good
cards but I knew I had every one of them beat. But again I
studied, and studied; I pretended perplexity. And finally I put
in my money, calling the bets.

The same betting pattern went on, with each new card, nght
around to the last card. And when that last card went around, I
hit another ace in sight. Three aces. And John hit another queen
in sight.

He bet a pile. Now, everyone else studied a long time—and,
one by one, all folded their hands. Except me. All I could do
was put what I had left on the table.

If I’d had the money, I could have raised five hundred dollars
or more, and he’d have had to call me. John couldn’t have gone
the rest of his life wondering if I had bluffed him out of a pot
that big.

I showed my hole card ace; John had three queens. As I hauled
in the pot, something over five hundred dollars—my first real
stake in Boston—John got up from the table. He’d quit. He told
his house man, ‘‘Anytime Red comes in here and wants any-

CAUGHT 141

thing, let him have it.’’ He said, ‘‘i’ve never seen a young man
play his hole card like he played.’’

John said ‘‘young man,”’ being himself about fifty, I guess,
although you can never be certain about a Negro’s age. He
thought, as most people would have, that I was about thirty. No
one in Roxbury except my sisters Ella and Mary suspected my
real age.

The story of that poker game helped my on-scene reputation
among the other gamblers and hustlers around Roxbury. An-
other thing that happened in John’s gambling house contributed:
the incident that made it known that I carried not a gun, but
some guns.

John had a standing rule that anyone who came into the place
to gamble had to check his guns if he had any. I always checked
two guns. Then, one night, when a gambler tried to pull some-
thing slick, I drew a third gun, from its shoulder holster. This
added to the rest of my reputation the word that I was ‘“‘trigger-
happy”’ and ‘‘crazy.’’

Looking back, I think I really was at least slightly out of my
mind. I viewed narcotics as most people regard food. I wore my
guns as today I wear my neckties. Deep down, I actually be-
lieved that after living as fully as humanly possible, one should
then die violently. I expected then, as I still expect today, to die
at any time. But then, I think I deliberately invited death in
many, sometimes insane, ways.

For instance, a merchant marine sailor who knew me and my
reputation came into a bar carrying a package. He motioned me
to follow him downstairs into the men’s room. He unwrapped a
stolen machine gun; he wanted to sell it. I said, ‘‘How do I
know it works?’’ He loaded it with a cartridge clip, and told me
that all I would have to do then was squeeze the trigger release.
I took the gun, examined it, and the first thing he knew I had it
jammed right up in his belly. I told him I would blow him wide
open. He went backwards out of the rest room and up the stairs
the way Bill ‘““Bojangles’’ Robinson used to dance going back-
wards. He knew I was crazy enough to kill him. I was insane
enough not to consider that he might just wait his chance to kill
me. For perhaps a month J kept the machine gun at Shorty’s
before I was broke and sold it.

When Reginald came to Roxbury visiting, he was shocked at

142 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

what he’d found out upon retuming to Harlem. I spent some
time with him. He still was the kid brother whom I still felt more
‘‘family’’ toward than I felt now even for our sister Ella. Ella
still liked me. I would go to see her once in a while. But Ella
had never been able to reconcile herself to the way I had changed.
She has since told me that she had a steady foreboding that I
was on my way into big trouble. But I always had the feeling
that Ella somehow admired my rebellion against the world, be-
cause she, who had so much more drive and guts than most
men, often felt stymied by having been born female.

Had I been thinking only in terms of myself, maybe I would
have chosen steady gambling as a hustle. There were enough
chump gamblers that hung around John Hughes’ for a good
gambler to make a living off them; chumps that worked, usually.
One would just have to never miss the games on their paydays.
Besides, John Hughes had offered me a job dealing for games;
I didn’t want that.

But I had come around to thinking not only of myself. I wanted
to get something going that could help Shorty, too. We had been
talking; I really felt sorry for Shorty. The same old musician
story. The so-called glamor of being a musician, earning just
about enough money so that after he paid rent and bought his
reefers and food and other routine things, he had nothing left.
Plus debts. How could Shorty have anything? I’d spent years in
Harlem and on the road around the most popular musicians, the
‘‘names,’’ even, who really were making big money for musi-
cians—and they had nothing.

For that matter, all the thousands of dollars I’d handled, and
I had nothing. Just satisfying my cocaine habit alone cost me
about twenty dollars a day. I guess another five dollars a day
could have been added for reefers and plain tobacco cigarettes
that I smoked; besides getting high on drugs, I chain-smoked as
many as four packs a day. And, if you ask me today, I'll tell
you that tobacco, in all its forms, is just as much an addiction
as any narcotic.

When I opened the subject of a hustle with Shorty, I started
by first binging him to agree with my concept—of which he
was a living proof—that only squares kept on believing they
could ever get anything by slaving.

And when I mentioned what I had in mind—house burglary—

CAUGHT 143

Shorty, who always had been so relatively conservative, really
surprised me by how quickly he agreed. He didn’t even know
anything about burglarizing.

When I began to explain how it was done, Shorty wanted to
bring in this friend of his, whom I had met, and liked, called Rudy.

Rudy’s mother was Italian, his father was a Negro. He was
born right there in Boston, a short, light fellow, a pretty boy
type. Rudy worked regularly for an employment agency that
sent him to wait on tables at exclusive parties. He had a side
deal going, a hustle that took me right back to the old steering
days in Harlem. Once a week, Rudy went to the home of this
old, rich Boston blueblood, pillar-of-society aristocrat. He paid
Rudy to undress them both, then pick up the old man like a
baby, lay him on his bed, then stand over him and sprinkle him
all over with talcum powder.

Rudy said the old man would actually reach his climax from
that.

I told him and Shorty about some of the things I’d seen. Rudy
said that as far as he knew, Boston had no organized specialty
sex houses, just individual rich whites who had their private
specialty desires catered to by Negroes who came to their homes
camouflaged as chauffeurs, maids, waiters, or some other ac-
cepted image. Just as in New York, these were the rich, the
highest society—the predominantly old men, past the age of
ability to conduct any kind of ordinary sex, always hunting for
new ways to be ‘‘sensitive.’”’

Rudy, I remember, spoke of one old white man who paid a
black couple to let him watch them have intercourse on his bed.
Another was so ‘‘sensitive’’ that he paid to sit on a chair outside
a room where a couple was—he got his satisfaction just from
imagining what was going on inside.

A good burglary team includes, I knew, what is called a
‘*finder.’’ A finder is one who locates lucrative places to rob.
Another principal need is someone able to ‘‘case’’ these places’
physical layouts—to determine means of entry, the best getaway
routes, and so forth. Rudy qualified on both counts. Being sent
to work in rich homes, he wouldn’t be suspected when he sized
up their loot and cased the joint, just running around looking
busy with a white coat on.

144 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Rudy’s reaction, when he was told what we had in mind, was
something, I remember, like ‘‘Man, when do we start?’’

But I wasn’t rushing off half-cocked. I had leamed from some
of the pros, and from my own experience, how important it was
to be careful and plan. Burglary, properly executed, though it had
its dangers, offered the maximum chances of success with the
minimum risk. If you did your job so that you never met any of
your victims, it first lessened your chances of having to attack or
perhaps kill someone. And if through some slip-up you were
caught, later, by the police, there was never a positive eyewitness.

It is also important to select an area of burglary and stick to
that. There are specific specialities among burglars. Some work
apartments only, others houses only, others stores only, or ware-
houses; still others will go after only safes or strongboxes.

Within the residence burglary category, there are further spe-.
Cialty distinctions. There are the day burglars, the dinner- and
theater-time burglars, the night burglars. I think that any city’s
police will tell you that very rarely do they find one type who
will work at another time. For instance Jumpsteady, in Harlem,
was a nighttime apartment specialist. It would have been hard
to persuade Jumpsteady to work in the daytime if a millionaire
had gone out for lunch and left his front door wide open.

I had one very practical reason never to work in the daytime,
aside from my inclinations. With my high visibility, I'd have
been sunk in the daytime. I could just hear people: ‘‘A reddish-
brown Negro over six feet tall.’’ One glance would be enough.

Setting up what I wanted to be the perfect operation, I thought
about pulling the white girls into it for two reasons. One was
that I realized we’d be too limited relying only upon places
where Rudy worked as a waiter. He didn’t get to work in too
many places; it wouldn’t be very long before we ran out of
sources. And when other places had to be found and cased in
the rich, white residential areas, Negroes hanging around would
stick out like sore thumbs, but these white girls could get invited
into the right places.

I disliked the idea of having too many people involved, all at
the same time. But with Shorty and Sophia’s sister so close now,
and Sophia and me as though we had been together for fifty
years, and Rudy as eager and cool as he was, nobody would be

CAUGHT 145

apt to spill, everybody would be under the same risk; we would
be like a family unit.

I never doubted that Sophia would go along. Sophia would
do anything I said. And her sister would do anything that Sophia
said. They both went for it. Sophia’s husband was away on one
of his trips to the coast when I told her and her sister.

Most burglars, I knew, were caught not on the job, but trying
to dispose of the loot. Finding the fence we used was a rare
piece of luck. We agreed upon the plan for operations. The fence
didn’t work with us directly. He had a representative, an ex-
con, who dealt with me, and no one else in my gang. Aside
from his regular business, he owned around Boston several ga-
rages and small warehouses. The arrangement was that before
a job, I would alert the representative, and give him a general
idea of what we expected to get, and he’d tell me at which garage
or warehouse we should make the drop. After we had made our
drop, the representative would examine the stolen articles. He
would remove all identifying marks from everything. Then he
would call the fence, who would come and make a personal
appraisal. The next day the representative would meet me at a
prearranged place and would make the payment for what we had
stolen—in cash.

One thing I remember. This fence always sent your money in
crisp, brand-new bills. He was smart. Somehow that had a very
definite psychological effect upon all of us, after we had pulled
a job, walking around with that crisp green money in our pock-
ets. He may have had other reasons.

We needed a base of operations—not in Roxbury. The girls
rented an apartment in Harvard Square. Unlike Negroes, these
white girls could go shopping for the locale and physical situa-
tion we wanted. It was on the ground floor, where, moving late
at night, all of us could come and go without attracting notice.

In any organization, someone must be the boss. If it’s even
just one person, you’ve got to be the boss of yourself.

At our gang’s first meeting in the apartment, we discussed
how we were going to work. The girls would get into houses to
case them by ringing bells and saying they were saleswomen,
poll-takers, college girls making a survey, or anything else suit-
able. Once in the houses, they would get around as much as

146 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

they could without attracting attention. Then, back, they would
report what special valuables they had seen, and where. They
would draw the layout for Shorty, Rudy, and me. We agreed
that the girls would actually burglarize only in special cases
where there would be some advantage. But generally the three
men would go, two of us to do the job while the third kept watch
in the getaway car, with the motor running.

Talking to them, laying down the plans, I had deliberately sat
on a bed away from them. All of a sudden, I pulled out my gun,
shook out all five bullets, and then let them see me put back only
one bullet. I twirled the cylinder, and put the muzzle to my head.

‘‘Now, I’m going to see how much guts all of you have,”’ I
said.

I grinned at them. All of their mouths had flapped open. I
pulled the trigger—we all heard it click.

‘I’m going to do it again, now.”’

They begged me to stop. I could see in Shorty’s and Rudy’s
eyes some idea of rushing me.

We all heard the hammer click on another empty cylinder.

The women were in hysterics. Rudy and Shorty were beg-
ging, ‘‘Man...Red.. . cutitout, man!.. . Freeze!’’ I pulled
the trigger once more.

‘Pm doing this, showing you I’m not afraid to die,’’ I told
them. ‘‘Never cross a man not afraid to die . . . now, let’s get
to work!”’

I never had one moment’s trouble with any of them after that.
Sophia acted awed, her sister all but called me ‘‘Mr. Red.’’
Shorty and Rudy were never again quite the same with me.
Neither of them ever mentioned it. They thought I was crazy.
They were afraid of me.

We pulled the first job that night—the place of the old man
who hired Rudy to sprinkle him with talcum powder. A cleaner
job couldn’t have been asked for. Everything went like clock-
work. The fence was full of praise; he proved he meant it with
his crisp, new money. The old man later told Rudy how a small
army of detectives had been there—and they decided that the
job had the earmarks of some gang which had been operating
around Boston for about a year.

We quickly got it down to a science. The girls would scout
and case in wealthy neighborhoods. The burglary would be

CAUGHT 14/7

pulled; sometimes it took no more than ten minutes. Shorty and
I did most of the actual burglary. Rudy generally had the get-
away car.

If the people weren’t at home, we’d use a passkey on a com-
mon door lock. On a patent lock, we’d use a jimmy, as it’s
called, or a lockpick. Or, sometimes, we would enter by win-
dows from a fire-escape, or a roof. Gullible women often took
the girls all over their houses, just to hear them exclaiming over
the finery. With the help of the girls’ drawings and a finger-
beam searchlight, we went straight to the things we wanted.

Sometimes the victims were in their beds asleep. That may
sound very daring. Actually, it was almost easy. The first thing
we had to do when people were in the house was to wait, very
still, and pick up the sounds of breathing. Snorers we loved;
they made it real easy. In stockinged feet, we’d go right into the
bedrooms. Moving swiftly, like shadows, we would lift clothes,
watches, wallets, handbags, and jewelry boxes.

The Christmas season was Santa Claus for us; people had
expensive presents lying all over their houses. And they had
taken more cash than usual out of their banks. Sometimes, work-
ing earlier than we usually did, we even worked houses that we
hadn’t cased. If the shades were drawn full, and no lights were
on, and there was no answer when one of the girls rang the bell,
we would take the chance and go in.

I can give you a very good tip if you want to keep burglars
out of your house. A light on for the burglar to see is the very
best single means of protection. One of the ideal things is to
leave a bathroom light on all night. The bathroom is one place
where somebody could be, for any length of time, at any time
of the night, and he would be likely to hear the slightest strange
sound. The burglar, knowing this, won’t try to enter. It’s also
the cheapest possible protection. The kilowatts are a lot cheaper
than your valuables.

We became efficient. The fence sometimes relayed tips as to
where we could find good loot. It was in this way that for one
period, one of our best periods, I remember, we specialized in
Oriental rugs. I have always suspected that the fence himself
sold the rugs to the people we stole them from. But, anyway,
you wouldn’t imagine the value of those things. I remember one
small one that brought us a thousand dollars. There’s no telling

148 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

what the fence got for it. Every burglar knew that fences robbed
the burglars worse than the burglars had robbed the victims.

Our only close brush with the law came once when we were
making our getaway, three of us in the front seat of the car, and
the back seat loaded with stuff. Suddenly we saw a police car
round the comer, coming toward us, and it went on past us.
They were just cruising. But then in the rear-view mirror, we
saw them make a U-tum, and we knew they were going to flash
us to stop. They had spotted us, in passing, as Negroes, and
they knew that Negroes had no business in the area at that hour.

It was a close situation. There was a lot of robbery going on;
we weren’t the only gang working, we knew, not by any means.
But I knew that the white man is rare who will ever consider
that a Negro can outsmart him. Before their light began flashing,
I told Rudy to stop. I did what I’d done once before—got out
and flagged them, walking toward them. When they stopped, I
was at their car. I asked them, bumbling my words like a con-
fused Negro, if they could tell me how to get to a Roxbury
address. They told me, and we, and they, went on about our
respective businesses.

We were going along fine. We’d make a good pile and then
lay low awhile, living it up. Shorty still played with his band,
Rudy never missed attending his sensitive old man, or the table-
waiting at his exclusive parties, and the girls maintained their
routine home schedules.

Sometimes, I still took the girls out to places where Shorty
played, and to other places, spending money as though it were
going out of style, the girls dressed in jewelry and furs they had
selected from our hauls. No one knew our hustle, but it was
clear that we were doing fine. And sometimes, the girls would
come over and we’d meet them either at Shorty’s in Roxbury or
in our Harvard Square place, and just smoke reefers, and play
music. It’s a shame to tell on a man, but Shorty was so obsessed
with the white girl that even if the lights were out, he would pull
up the shade to be able to see that white flesh by the street lamp
from outside.

Early evenings when we were laying low between jobs, I
often went to a Massachusetts Avenue nightclub called the Sa-
voy. And Sophia would telephone me there punctually. Even

CAUGHT 149

when we pulled jobs, I would leave from this club, then rush
back there after the job. The reason was so that if it was ever
necessary, people could testify that they had seen me at just
about the time the job was pulled. Negroes being questioned by
policemen would be very hard to pin down on any exact time.

Boston at this time had two Negro detectives. Ever since I had
come back on the Roxbury scene, one of these detectives, a dark
brown fellow named Turner, had never been able to stand me, and
it was mutual. He talked about what he would do to me, and I had
promptly put an answer back on the wire. I knew from the way he
began to act that he had heard it. Everyone knew that I carried
guns. And he did have sense enough to know that I wouldn’t
hesitate to use them—and on him, detective or not.

This early evening I was in this place when at the usual time,
the phone in the booth rang. It rang just as this detective Turner
happened to walk in through the front door. He saw me start to
get up, he knew the call was for me, but stepped inside the
booth, and answered.

I heard him saying, looking straight at me, ‘‘Hello, hello,
hello—’’ And I knew that Sophia, taking no chances with the
strange voice, had hung up.

**Wasn’t that call for me?’’ I asked Turner.

He said that it was.

I said, “Well, why didn’t you say so?’’

He gave me a rude answer. I knew he wanted me to make a
move, first. We both were being cagey. We both knew that we
wanted to kill each other. Neither wanted to say the wrong thing.
Tumer didn’t want to say anything that, repeated, would make
him sound bad. I didn’t want to say anything that could be
interpreted as a threat to a cop.

But I remember exactly what I said to him anyway, purposely
loud enough for some people at the bar to hear me. I said, ‘‘You
know, Turner—you’re trying to make history. Don’t you know
that if you play with me, you certainly will go down in history
because you’ve got to kill me?”’

Turner looked at me. Then he backed down. He walked on
by me. I guess he wasn’t ready to make history.

I had gotten to the point where I was walking on my own coffin.

It’s a law of the rackets that every criminal expects to get
caught. He tries to stave off the inevitable for as long as he can.

150 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Drugs helped me push the thought to the back of my mind.
They were the center of my life. I had gotten to the stage where
every day I used enough dmgs—reefers, cocaine, or both—so
that I felt above any worries, any strains. If any worries did
manage to push their way through to the surface of my con-
sciousness, I could float them back where they came from until
tomorrow, and then until the next day.

But where, always before, I had been able to smoke the reef-
ers and to sniff the snow and rarely show it very much, by now
it was not that easy.

One week when we weren’t working—after a big haul—I was
just staying high, and I was out nightclubbing. I came into this
club, and from the bartender’s face when he spoke, ‘‘Hello,
Red,’’ I knew that something was wrong. But I didn’t ask him
anything. I’ve always had this rule—never ask anybody in that
kind of situation; they will tell you what they want you to know.
But the bartender didn’t get a chance to tell me, if he had meant
to. When I sat down on a stool and ordered a drink, I saw them.

Sophia and her sister sat at a table inside, near the dance floor,
with a white man.

I don’t know how I ever made such a mistake as I next did. I
could have talked to her later. I didn’t know, or care, who the
white fellow was. My cocaine told me to get up.

It wasn’t Sophia’s husband. It was his closest friend. They
had served in the war together. With her husband out of town,
he had asked Sophia and her sister out to dinner, and they went.
But then, later, after dinner, driving around, he had suddenly
suggested going over to the black ghetto.

Every Negro who lives in a city has seen the type a thousand
times, the Northern cracker who will go to visit ‘‘niggertown,”’
to be amused at “‘the coons.”’

The girls, so well known in the Negro places in Roxbury, had
tried to change his mind, but he had insisted. So they had just
held their breaths coming into this club where they had been a
hundred times. They walked in stiff-eyeing the bartenders and
waiters who caught their message and acted as though they never
had seen them before. And they were sitting there with drinks
before them, praying that no Negro who knew them would barge
up to their table.

CAUGHT 151

Then up I came. I know I called them “‘Baby.’’ They were
chalky-white, he was beet-red.

That same night, back at the Harvard Square place, I really
got sick. It was less of a physical sickness than it was all of the
last five years catching up. I was in my pajamas in bed, half
asleep, when I heard someone knock.

I knew that something was wrong. We all had keys. No one
ever knocked at the door. I rolled off and under the bed; I was so
groggy it didn’t cross my mind to grab for my gun on the dresser.

Under the bed, I heard the key tum, and I saw the shoes and
pants cuffs walk in. I watched them walk around. I saw them
stop. Every time they stopped, I knew what the eyes were look-
ing at. And I knew, before he did, that he was going to get down
and look under the bed. He did. It was Sophia’s husband’s friend.
His face was about two feet from mine. It looked congealed.

‘*Ha, ha, ha, I fooled you, didn’t I?’’ I said. It wasn’t at all
funny. I got out from under the bed, still fake-laughing. He
didn’t run, I’ll say that for him. He stood back; he watched me
as though I were a snake.

I didn’t try to hide what he already knew. The girls had some
things in the closets, and around; he had seen all of that. We
even talked some. I told him the girls weren’t there, and he left.
What shook me the most was realizing that I had trapped myself
under the bed without a gun. I really was slipping.

I had put a stolen watch into a jewelry shop to replace a broken
crystal. It was about two days later, when I went to pick up the
watch, that things fell apart.

As I have said, a gun was as much a part of my dress as a
necktie. I had my gun in a shoulder holster, under my coat.

The loser of the watch, the person from whom it had been
stolen by us, I later found, had described the repair that it needed.
It was a very expensive watch, that’s why I had kept it for
myself. And all of the jewelers in Boston had been alerted.

The Jew waited until I had paid him before he laid the watch
on the counter. He gave his signal—and this other fellow sud-
denly appeared, from the back, walking toward me.

One hand was in his pocket. I knew he was a cop.

He said, quietly, ‘Step into the back.”’

Just as I started back there, an innocent Negro walked into

152 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

the shop. I remember later hearing that he had just that day
gotten out of the military. The detective, thinking he was with
me, turned to him.

There I was, wearing my gun, and the detective talking to that
Negro with his back to me. Today I believe that Allah was with
me even then. I didn’t try to shoot him. And that saved my life.

I remember that his name was Detective Slack.

I raised my arm, and motioned to him, ‘‘Here, take my gun.’’

I saw his face when he took it. He was shocked. Because of
the sudden appearance of the other Negro, he had never thought
about a gun. It really moved him that I hadn’t tried to kill him.

Then, holding my gun in his hand, he signaled. And out from
where they had been concealed walked two other detectives.
They’d had me covered. One false move, I’d have been dead.

I was going to have a long time in prison to think about that.

If I hadn’t been arrested right when I was, I could have been
dead another way. Sophia’s husband’s friend had told her hus-
band about me. And the husband had arrived that morning, and
had gone to the apartment with a gun, looking for me. He was
at the apartment just about when they took me to the precinct.

The detectives grilled me. They didn’t beat me. They didn’t
even put a finger on me. And I knew it was because I hadn’t
tried to kill the detective.

They got my address from some papers they found on me.
The girls soon were picked up. Shorty was pulled night off the
bandstand that night. The girls also had implicated Rudy. To
this day, I have always marveled at how Rudy, somehow, got
the word, and I know he must have caught the first thing smok-
ing out of Boston, and he got away. They never got him.

I have thought a thousand times, I guess, about how I so
narrowly escaped death twice that day. That’s why I believe that
everything is written.

The cops found the apartment loaded with evidence—fur
coats, some jewelry, other small stuff—plus the tools of our
trade. A jimmy, a lockpick, glass cutters, screwdrivers, pencil-
beam flashlights, false keys . . . and my small arsenal of guns.

The girls got low bail. They were still white—burglars or not.
Their worst crime was their involvement with Negroes. But
Shorty and I had bail set at $10,000 each, which they knew we
were nowhere near able to raise.

CAUGHT 153

The social workers worked on us. White women in league
with Negroes was their main obsession. The girls weren’t so-
called ‘‘tramps,’’ or ‘‘trash,’’ they were well-to-do upper-
middle-class whites. That bothered the social workers and the
forces of the law more than anything else.

How, where, when, had I met them? Did we sleep together?
Nobody wanted to know anything at all about the robberies. All
they could see was that we had taken the white man’s women.

I just looked at the social workers: ‘‘Now, what do you think?”’

Even the court clerks and the bailiffs: ‘‘Nice white girls. . .
goddam niggers—’’ It was the same even from our court-
appointed lawyers as we sat down, under guard, at a table, as
our hearing assembled. Before the judge entered, I said to one
lawyer, ‘‘We seem to be getting sentenced because of those
girls.”’ He got red from the neck up and shuffled his papers:
**You had no business with white giris!’’

Later, when I had learned the full truth about the white man,
I reflected many times that the average burglary sentence for a
first offender, as we all were, was about two years. But we
weren’t going to get the average—not for our crime.

I want to say before I go on that I have never previously told
anyone my sordid past in detail. I haven’t done it now to sound
as though I might be proud of how bad, how evil, I was.

But people are always speculating—why am I as I am? To
understand that of any person, his whole life, from birth, must
be reviewed. All of our experiences fuse into our personality.
Everything that ever happened to us is an ingredient.

Today, when everything that I do has an urgency, I would not
spend one hour in the preparation of a book which had the am-
bition to perhaps titillate some readers. But I am spending many
hours because the full story is the best way that I know to have
it seen, and understood, that I had sunk to the very bottom of
the American white man’s society when—soon now, in prison—
I found Allah and the religion of Islam and it completely trans-
formed my life.

CHAPTER TEN
SATAN

Shorty didn’t know what the word ‘‘concurrently’’ meant.

Somehow, Lansing-to-Boston bus fare had been scraped up
by Shorty’s old mother. ‘‘Son, read the Book of Revelations and
pray to God!’’ she had kept telling Shorty, visiting him, and
once me, while we awaited our sentencing. Shorty had read the
Bible’s Revelation pages; he had actually gotten down on his
knees, praying like some Negro Baptist deacon.

Then we were looking up at the judge in Middlesex County
Court. (Our, I think, fourteen counts of crime were committed
in that county.) Shorty’s mother was sitting, sobbing with her
head bowing up and down to her Jesus, over near Ella and Reg-
inald. Shorty was the first of us called to stand up.

**Count one, eight to ten years—

“Count two, eight to ten years—

*‘Count three. . .”’

And, finally, ‘“The sentences to run concurrently.’’

Shorty, sweating so hard that his black face looked as though
it had been greased, and not understanding the word ‘‘concur-
rently,’’ had counted in his head to probably over a hundred
years; he cried out, he began slumping. The bailiffs had to catch
and support him.

In eight to ten seconds, Shorty had turned as atheist as I had
been to start with.

I got ten years.

The girls got one to five years, in the Women’s Reformatory
at Framingham, Massachusetts.

154

SATAN 155

This was in February, 1946. I wasn’t quite twenty-one. I had
not even started shaving.

They took Shorty and me, handcuffed together, to the
Charlestown State Prison.

I can’t remember any of my prison numbers. That seems sur-
prising, even after the dozen years since I have been out of
prison. Because your number in prison became part of you. You
never heard your name, only your number. On all of your cloth-
ing, every item, was your number, stenciled. It grew stenciled
on your brain.

Any person who claims to have deep feeling for other human
beings should think a long, long time before he votes to have
other men kept behind bars—caged. I am not saying there
shouldn’t be prisons, but there shouldn’t be bars. Behind bars,
a man never reforms. He will never forget. He never will get
completely over the memory of the bars.

After he gets out, his mind tries to erase the experience, but
he can’t. I’ve talked with numerous former convicts. It has been
very interesting to me to find that all of our minds had blotted
away many details of years in prison. But in every case, he will
tell you that he can’t forget those bars.

As a ‘‘fish’’ (prison slang for a new inmate) at Charlestown,
I was physically miserable and as evil-tempered as a snake,
being suddenly without drugs. The cells didn’t have running
water. The prison had been built in 1805—in Napoleon’s day—
and was even styled after the Bastille. In the dirty, cramped cell,
I could lie on my cot and touch both walls. The toilet was a
covered pail; I don’t care how strong you are, you can’t stand
having to smell a whole cell row of defecation.

The prison psychologist interviewed me and he got called
every filthy name I could think of, and the prison chaplain got
called worse. My first letter, I remember, was from my religious
brother Philbert in Detroit, telling me his ‘‘holiness’’ church
was going to pray for me. I scrawled him a reply I’m ashamed
to think of today.

Ella was my first visitor. I remember seeing her catch herself,
then try to smile at me, now in the faded dungarees stenciled
with my number. Neither of us could find much to say, until I
wished she hadn’t come at all. The guards with guns watched
about fifty convicts and visitors. I have heard scores of new

156 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

prisoners swearing back in their cells that when free their first
act would be to waylay those visiting-room guards. Hatred often
focused on them.

I first got high in Charlestown on nutmeg. My cellmate was
among at least a hundred nutmeg men who, for money or cig-
arettes, bought from kitchen-worker inmates penny matchboxes
full of stolen nutmeg. I grabbed a box as though it were a pound
of heavy drugs. Stirred into a glass of cold water, a penny match-
box full of nutmeg had the kick of three or four reefers.

With some money sent by Ella, I was finally able to buy stuff
for better highs from guards in the prison. I got reefers, Nem-
butal, and benzedrine. Smuggling to prisoners was the guards’
sideline; every prison’s inmates know that’s how guards make
most of their living.

I served a total of seven years in prison. Now, when I try to
separate that first year-plus that I spent at Charlestown, it runs
all together in a memory of nutmeg and the other semi-drugs,
of cursing guards, throwing things out of my cell, balking in the
lines, dropping my tray in the dining hall, refusing to answer
my number—claiming I forgot it—and things like that.

I preferred the solitary that this behavior brought me. I would
pace for hours like a caged leopard, viciously cursing aloud to
myself. And my favorite targets were the Bible and God. But
there was a legal limit to how much time one could be kept in
solitary. Eventually, the men in the cellblock had a name for
me: ‘‘Satan.’’ Because of my antireligious attitude.

The first man I met in prison who made any positive impres-
sion on me whatever was a fellow inmate, ‘‘Bimbi.’’ I met him
in 1947, at Charlestown. He was a light, kind of red-
complexioned Negro, as I was; about my height, and he had
freckles. Bimbi, an old-time burglar, had been in many prisons.
In the license plate shop where our gang worked, he operated
the machine that stamped out the numbers. I was along the con-
veyor belt where the numbers were painted.

Bimbi was the first Negro convict I’d known who didn’t re-
spond to ‘‘What’cha know, Daddy?’’ Often, after we had done
our day’s license plate quota, we would sit around, perhaps
fifteen of us, and listen to Bimbi. Normally, white prisoners
wouldn’t think of listening to Negro prisoners’ opinions on any-

SATAN 157

thing, but guards, even, would wander over close to hear Bimbi
on any subject.

He would have a cluster of people riveted, often on odd sub-
jects you never would think of. He would prove to us, dipping
into the science of human behavior, that the only difference
between us and outside people was that we had been caught. He
liked to talk about historical events and figures. When he talked
about the history of Concord, where I was to be transferred later,
you would have thought he was hired by the Chamber of Com-
merce, and I wasn’t the first inmate who had never heard of
Thoreau until Bimbi expounded upon him. Bimbi was known
as the library’s best customer. What fascinated me with him
most of all was that he was the first man I had ever seen com-
mand total respect . . . with his words.

Bimbi seldom said much to me; he was gruff to individuals,
but I sensed he liked me. What made me seek his friendship was
when I heard him discuss religion. I considered myself beyond
atheism—I was Satan. But Bimbi put the atheist philosophy in
a framework, so to speak. That ended my vicious cursing at-
tacks. My approach sounded so weak alongside his, and he never
used a foul word.

Out of the blue one day, Bimbi told me flatly, as was his way,
that I had some brains, if I’d use them. I had wanted his friend-
ship, not that kind of advice. I might have cursed another con-
vict, but nobody cursed Bimbi. He told me I should take
advantage of the prison correspondence courses and the library.

When I had finished the eighth grade back in Mason, Michi-
gan, that was the last time I’d thought of studying anything that
didn’t have some hustle purpose. And the streets had erased
everything I’d ever learned in school; I didn’t know a verb from
a house. My sister Hilda had written a suggestion that, if pos-
sible in prison, I should study English and penmanship; she had
barely been able to read a couple of picture postcards I had sent
her when I was selling reefers on the road.

So, feeling I had time on my hands, I did begin a correspon-
dence course in English. When the mimeographed listings of
available books passed from cell to cell, I would put my number
next to titles that appealed to me which weren’t already taken.

Through the correspondence exercises and lessons, some of
the mechanics of grammar gradually began to come back to me.

158 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

After about a year, I guess, I could wnite a decent and legible
letter. About then, too, influenced by having heard Bimbi often
explain word derivations, I quietly started another correspon-
dence course—in Latin.

Under Bimbi’s tutelage, too, I had gotten myself some little
cellblock swindles going. For packs of cigarettes, I beat just
about anyone at dominoes. I always had several cartons of cig-
arettes in my cell; they were, in prison, nearly as valuable a
medium of exchange as money. I booked cigarette and money
bets on fights and ball games. I’ll never forget the prison sen-
sation created that day in April, 1947, when Jackie Robinson
was brought up to play with the Brooklyn Dodgers. Jackie Rob-
inson had, then, his most fanatic fan in me. When he played,
my ear was glued to the radio, and no game ended without my
refiguring his average up through his last turn at bat.

One day in 1948, after I had been transferred to Concord
Prison, my brother Philbert, who was forever joining some-
thing, wrote me this time that he had discovered the “‘natural
religion for the black man.’’ He belonged now, he said, to some-
thing called “‘the Nation of Islam.’’ He said I should ‘‘pray to
Allah for deliverance.’’ I wrote Philbert a letter which, although
in improved English, was worse than my earlier reply to his
news that I was being prayed for by his ‘‘holiness’’ church.

When a letter from Reginald arrived, I never dreamed of as-
sociating the two letters, although I knew that Reginald had been
spending a lot of time with Wilfred, Hilda, and Philbert in De-
troit. Reginald’s letter was newsy, and also it contained this
instruction: ‘‘Malcolm, don’t eat any more pork, and don’t
smoke any more cigarettes. ll show you how to get out of
prison.”’

My automatic response was to think he had come upon some
way I could work a hype on the penal authorities. I went to
sleep—and woke up—trying to figure what kind of a hype it
could be. Something psychological, such as my act with the
New York draft board? Could I, after going without pork and
smoking no cigarettes for a while, claim some physical trouble
that could bring about my release?

‘*Get out of prison.’’ The words hung in the air around me, I
wanted out so badly.

SATAN 159

I wanted, in the worst way, to consult with Bimbi about it.
But something big, instinct said, you spilled to nobody.

Quitting cigarettes wasn’t going to be too difficult. I had been
conditioned by days in solitary without cigarettes. Whatever this
chance was, I wasn’t going to fluff it. After I read that letter, I
finished the pack I then had open. I haven’t smoked another
cigarette to this day, since 1948.

It was about three or four days later when pork was served
for the noon meal.

I wasn’t even thinking about pork when I took my seat at the
long table. Sit-grab-gobble-stand-file out; that was the Emily
Post in prison eating. When the meat platter was passed to me,
I didn’t even know what the meat was; usually, you couldn’t
tell, anyway—but it was suddenly as though don’t eat any more
pork flashed on a screen before me.

I hesitated, with the platter in mid-air; then I passed it along
to the inmate waiting next to me. He began serving himself;
abruptly, he stopped. I remember him turning, looking surprised
at me.

I said to him, ‘‘I don’t eat pork.’’

The platter then kept on down the table.

It was the funniest thing, the reaction, and the way that it
spread. In prison, where so little breaks the monotonous routine,
the smallest thing causes a commotion of talk. It was being
mentioned all over the cell block by night that Satan didn’t eat
pork.

It made me very proud, in some odd way. One of the universal
images of the Negro, in prison and out, was that he couldn’t do
without pork. It made me feel good to see that my not eating it
had especially startled the white convicts.

Later I would learn, when I had read and studied Islam a good
deal, that, unconsciously, my first pre-Islamic submission had
been manifested. I had experienced, for the first time, the Mus-
lim teaching, ‘‘If you will take one step toward Allah—Allah
will take two steps toward you.”’

My brothers and sisters in Detroit and Chicago had all become
converted to what they were being taught was the ‘‘natural re-
ligion for the black man’’ of which Philbert had written to me.
They all prayed for me to become converted while I was in
prison. But after Philbert reported my vicious reply, they dis-

160 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

cussed what was the best thing to do. They had decided that
Reginald, the latest convert, the one to whom I felt closest,
would best know how to approach me, since he knew me so
well in the street life.

Independently of all this, my sister Ella had been steadily
working to get me transferred to the Norfolk, Massachusetts,
Prison Colony, which was an experimental rehabilitation jail.
In other prisons, convicts often said that if you had the nght
money, or connections, you could get transferred to this Colony
whose penal policies sounded almost too good to be true. Some-
how, Ella’s efforts in my behalf were successful in late 1948,
and I was transferred to Norfolk.

The Colony was, comparatively, a heaven, in many respects.
It had flushing toilets; there were no bars, only walls—and within
the walls, you had far more freedom. There was plenty of fresh
air to breathe; it was not in a city.

There were twenty-four ‘‘house’’ units, fifty men living in
each unit, if memory serves me correctly. This would mean that
the Colony had a total of around 1200 inmates. Each ‘‘house’’
had three floors and, greatest blessing of all, each inmate had
his own room.

About fifteen per cent of the inmates were Negroes, distrib-
uted about five to nine Negroes in each house.

Norfolk Prison Colony represented the most enlightened form
of prison that I have ever heard of. In place of the atmosphere
of malicious gossip, perversion, grafting, hateful guards, there
was more relative ‘‘culture,’’ as ‘‘culture’’ is interpreted in pris-
ons. A high percentage of the Norfolk Prison Colony inmates
went in for ‘‘intellectual’’ things, group discussions, debates,
and such. Instructors for the educational rehabilitation programs
came from Harvard, Boston University, and other educational
institutions in the area. The visiting rules, far more lenient than
other prisons’, permitted visitors almost every day, and allowed
them to stay two hours. You had your choice of sitting alongside
your visitor, or facing each other.

Norfolk Prison Colony’s library was one of its outstanding
features. A millionaire named Parkhurst had willed his library
there; he had probably been interested in the rehabilitation pro-
gram. History and religions were his special interests. Thou-
sands of his books were on the shelves, and in the back were

SATAN 161

boxes and crates full, for which there wasn’t space on the
shelves. At Norfolk, we could actually go into the library, with
permission—walk up and down the shelves, pick books. There
were hundreds of old volumes, some of them probably quite
rare. I read aimlessly, until I learned to read selectively, with a
purpose.

I hadn’t heard from Reginald in a good while after I got to
Norfolk Prison Colony. But I had come in there not smoking
Cigarettes, or eating pork when it was served. That caused a bit
of eyebrow-raising. Then a letter from Reginald telling me when
he was coming to see me. By the time he came, I was really
keyed up to hear the hype he was going to explain.

Reginald knew how my street-hustler mind operated. That’s
why his approach was so effective.

He had always dressed well, and now, when he came to visit,
was carefully groomed. I was aching with wanting the ‘‘no pork
and cigarettes’ riddle answered. But he talked about the family,
what was happening in Detroit, Harlem the last time he was
there. I have never pushed anyone to tell me anything before he
is ready. The offhand way Reginald talked and acted made me
know that something big was coming.

He said, finally, as though it had just happened to come into
his mind, ‘‘Malcolm, if a man knew every imaginable thing that
there 1s to know, who would he be?’’

Back in Harlem, he had often liked to get at something through
this kind of indirection. It had often irritated me, because my
way had always been direct. I looked at him. ‘‘Well, he would
have to be some kind of a god—”’

Reginald said, ““There’s a man who knows everything.’’

I asked, ‘‘Who is that?’’

‘*God is a man,’’ Reginald said. “‘His real name is Allah.”’

Allah. That word came back to me from Philbert’s letter; it
was my first hint of any connection. But Reginald went on. He
said that God had 360 degrees of knowledge. He said that 360
degrees represented ‘‘the sum total of knowledge. ”’

To say I was confused is an understatement. I don’t have to
remind you of the background against which I sat hearing my
brother Reginald talk like this. I just listened, knowing he was
taking his time in putting me onto something. And if somebody
is trying to put you onto something, you need to listen.

162 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

‘‘The devil has only thirty-three degrees of knowledge—
known as Masonry,’’ Reginald said. I can so specifically re-
member the exact phrases since, later, I was going to teach them
sO many times to others. ‘The devil uses his Masonry to rule
other people.’’

He told me that this God had come to America, and that he
had made himself known to a man named Elijah—‘‘a black man,
just like us.’’ This God had let Elijah know, Reginald said, that
the devil’s ‘‘time was up.’”’

I didn’t know what to think. I just listened.

‘*The devil is also a man,’’ Reginald said.

*“What do you mean?”’

With a slight movement of his head, Reginald indicated some
white inmates and their visitors talking, as we were, across the
room.

‘‘Them,’’ he said. ‘‘The white man is the devil.”’

He told me that all whites knew they were devils—‘‘especially
Masons.”’

I never will forget: my mind was involuntarily flashing across
the entire spectrum of white people I had ever known; and for
some reason it stopped upon Hymie, the Jew, who had been so
good to me.

Reginald, a couple of times, had gone out with me to that
Long Island bootlegging operation to buy and bottle up the boot-
leg liquor for Hymie.

I said, ‘‘Without any exception?’’

‘*Without any exception.”’

**What about Hymie?’’

‘‘What is it if I let you make five hundred dollars to let me
make ten thousand?”’

After Reginald left, I thought. I thought. Thought.

I couldn’t make of it head, or tail, or middle.

The white people I had known marched before my mind’s
eye. From the start of my life. The state white people always in
our house after the other whites I didn’t know had killed my
father . . . the white people who kept calling my mother ‘‘crazy’”’
to her face and before me and my brothers and sisters, until she
finally was taken off by white people to the Kalamazoo asylum
. . . the white judge and others who had split up the children
. . . the Swerlins, the other whites around Mason .. . white

SATAN 163

youngsters I was in school there with, and the teachers—the one
who told me in the eighth grade to “‘be a carpenter’’ because
thinking of being a lawyer was foolish for a Negro. . . .

My head swam with the parading faces of white people. The
ones in Boston, in the white-only dances at the Roseland Ball-

room where I shined their shoes . . . at the Parker House where
I took their dirty plates back to the kitchen . . . the railroad
crewmen and passengers . . . Sophia... .

The whites in New York City—the cops, the white criminals
I’d dealt with . . . the whites who piled into the Negro speak-
easies for a taste of Negro soul . . . the white women who wanted
Negro men. . . the men I’d steered to the black “‘specialty sex’’
they wanted... .

The fence back in Boston, and his ex-con representative . . .
Boston cops . . . Sophia’s husband’s fnend, and her husband,
whom I’d never seen, but knew so much about . . . Sophia’s
sister . . . the Jew jeweler who’d helped trap me. . . the social
workers . . . the Middlesex County Court people. . . the judge
who gave me ten years . . . the prisoners I’d known, the guards
and the officials... .

A celebrity among the Norfolk Prison Colony inmates was a
rich, older fellow, a paralytic, called John. He had killed his
baby, one of those ‘‘mercy’’ killings. He was a proud, big-shot
type, always reminding everyone that he was a 33rd-degree Ma-
son, and what powers Masons had—that only Masons ever had
been U.S. Presidents, that Masons in distress could secretly
signal to judges and other Masons in powerful positions.

I kept thinking about what Reginald had said. I wanted to test
it with John. He worked in a soft job in the prison’s school. I
went over there.

‘‘John,’’ I said, ‘‘how many degrees 1n a circle?’’

He said, ‘‘Three hundred and sixty.”’

I drew a square. ‘‘How many degrees in that?’’ He said three
hundred and sixty.

I asked him was three hundred and sixty degrees, then, the
maximum of degrees in anything?

He said “‘Yes.”’
I said, ‘“Well, why is it that Masons go only to thirty-three
degrees?’’

He had no satisfactory answer. But for me, the answer was

164 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

that Masonry, actually, is only thirty-three degrees of the reli-
gion of Islam, which is the full projection, forever denied to
Masons, although they know it exists.

Reginald, when he came to visit me again in a few days, could
gauge from my attitude the effect that his talking had had upon
me. He seemed very pleased. Then, very seriously, he talked
for two solid hours about ‘‘the devil white man’’ and ‘‘the brain-
washed black man.”’

When Reginald left, he left me rocking with some of the first
serious thoughts I had ever had in my life: that the white man
was fast losing his power to oppress and exploit the dark world;
that the dark world was starting to rise to rule the world again,
as it had before; that the white man’s world was on the way
down, it was on the way out.

‘*You don’t even know who you are,’’ Reginald had said.
‘“You don’t even know, the white devil has hidden it from you,
that you are of a race of people of ancient civilizations, and riches
in gold and kings. You don’t even know your true family name,
you wouldn’t recognize your true language if you heard it. You
have been cut off by the devil white man from all true knowledge
of your own kind. You have been a victim of the evil of the devil
white man ever since he murdered and raped and stole you from
your native land in the seeds of your forefathers. . . .”’

I began to receive at least two letters every day from my
brothers and sisters in Detroit. My oldest brother, Wilfred,
wrote, and his first wife, Bertha, the mother of his two children
(since her death, Wilfred has met and married his present wife,
Ruth). Philbert wrote, and my sister Hilda. And Reginald vis-
ited, staying in Boston awhile before he went back to Detroit,
where he had been the most recent of them to be converted.
They were all Muslims, followers of a man they described to
me as ““The Honorable Elijah Muhammad,”’’ a small, gentle
man, whom they sometimes referred to as ““The Messenger of
Allah.’’ He was, they said, ‘‘a black man, like us.’’ He had
been born in America on a farm in Georgia. He had moved with
his family to Detroit, and there had met a Mr. Wallace D. Fard
who he claimed was ‘‘God in person.’’ Mr. Wallace D. Fard had
given to Elijah Muhammad Allah’s message for the black people
who were ‘‘the Lost-Found Nation of Islam here in this wilder-
ness of North America.’’

SATAN 165

All of them urged me to ‘‘accept the teachings of The Hon-
orable Elijah Muhammad.’’ Reginald explained that pork was
not eaten by those who worshiped in the religion of Islam, and
not smoking cigarettes was a rule of the followers of The Hon-
orable Elijah Muhammad, because they did not take injurious
things such as narcotics, tobacco, or liquor into their bodies.
Over and over, I read, and heard, ‘‘The key to a Muslim 1s
submission, the attunement of one toward Allah.’’

And what they termed ‘‘the true knowledge of the black man’’
that was possessed by the followers of The Honorable Elijah
Muhammad was given shape for me in their lengthy letters,
sometimes containing printed literature.

‘*The true knowledge,’’ reconstructed much more briefly than
I received it, was that history had been ‘‘whitened’’ in the white
man’s history books, and that the black man had been ‘‘brain-
washed for hundreds of years.’’ Original Man was black, in the
continent called Africa where the human race had emerged on
the planet Earth.

The black man, original man, built great empires and civili-
zations and cultures while the white man was still living on all
fours in caves. ‘‘The devil white man,’’ down through history,
out of his devilish nature, had pillaged, murdered, raped, and
exploited every race of man not white.

Human history’s greatest crime was the traffic in black flesh
when the devil white man went into Africa and murdered and
kidnapped to bring to the West in chains, in slave ships, millions
of black men, women, and children, who were worked and
beaten and tortured as slaves.

The devil white man cut these black people off from all
knowledge of their own kind, and cut them off from any knowl-
edge of their own language, religion, and past culture, until the
black man in America was the earth’s only race of people who
had absolutely no knowledge of his true identity.

In one generation, the black slave women in America had
been raped by the slavemaster white man until there had begun
to emerge a homemade, handmade, brainwashed race that was
no longer even of its true color, that no longer even knew its
true family names. The slavemaster forced his family name upon

166 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

this rape-mixed race, which the slavemaster began to call ‘‘the
Negro.’’

This ‘‘Negro’’ was taught of his native Africa that it was
peopled by heathen, black savages, swinging like monkeys from
trees. This ‘‘Negro’’ accepted this along with every other teach-
ing of the slavemaster that was designed to make him accept
and obey and worship the white man.

And where the religion of every other people on earth taught
its believers of a God with whom they could identify, a God
who at least looked like one of their own kind, the slavemaster
injected his Christian religion into this ‘‘Negro.’’ This ‘‘Negro’’
was taught to worship an alien God having the same blond hair,
pale skin, and blue eyes as the slavemaster.

This religion taught the ‘‘Negro’’ that black was a curse. It
taught him to hate everything black, including himself. It taught
him that everything white was good, to be admired, respected,
and loved. It brainwashed this ‘‘Negro’’ to think he was superior
if his complexion showed more of the white pollution of the
slavemaster. This white man’s Christian religion further de-
ceived and brainwashed this “‘Negro’’ to always turn the other
cheek, and grin, and scrape, and bow, and be humble, and to
sing, and to pray, and to take whatever was dished out by the
devilish white man; and to look for his pie in the sky, and for
his heaven in the hereafter, while right here on earth the slave-
master white man enjoyed his heaven.

Many a time, I have looked back, trying to assess, just for
myself, my first reactions to all this. Every instinct of the ghetto
jungle streets, every hustling fox and criminal wolf instinct in
me, which would have scoffed at and rejected anything else,
was struck numb. It was as though all of that life merely was
back there, without any remaining effect, or influence. I remem-
ber how, some time later, reading the Bible in the Norfolk Prison
Colony library, I came upon, then I read, over and over, how
Paul on the road to Damascus, upon hearing the voice of Christ,
was so smitten that he was knocked off his horse, in a daze. I
do not now, and I did not then, liken myself to Paul. But I do
understand his experience.

I have since learned—helping me to understand what then
began to happen within me—that the truth can be quickly re-
ceived, or received at all, only by the sinner who knows and

SATAN 167

admits that he is guilty of having sinned much. Stated another
way: only guilt admitted accepts truth. The Bible again: the one
people whom Jesus could not help were the Pharisees; they didn’t
feel they needed any help.

The very enormity of my previous life’s guilt prepared me to
accept the truth.

Not for weeks yet would I deal with the direct, personal ap-
plication to myself, as a black man, of the truth. It still was like
a blinding light.

Reginald left Boston and went back to Detroit. I would sit in
my room and stare. At the dining-room table, I would hardly
eat, only drink the water. I nearly starved. Fellow inmates, con-
cerned, and guards, apprehensive, asked what was wrong with
me. It was suggested that I visit the doctor, and I didn’t. The
doctor, advised, visited me. I don’t know what his diagnosis
was, probably that I was working on some act.

I was going through the hardest thing, also the greatest thing,
for any human being to do; to accept that which is already within
you, and around you.

I learned later that my brothers and sisters in Detroit put to-
gether the money for my sister Hilda to come and visit me. She
told me that when The Honorable Elijah Muhammad was in
Detroit, he would stay as a guest at my brother Wilfred’s home,
which was on McKay Street. Hilda kept urging me to write to
Mr. Muhammad. He understood what it was to be in the white
man’s prison, she said, because he, himself, had not long before
gotten out of the federal prison at Milan, Michigan, where he
had served five years for evading the draft.

Hilda said that The Honorable Elijah Muhammad came to
Detroit to reorganize his Temple Number One, which had be-
come disorganized during his prison time; but he lived in Chi-
cago, where he was organizing and building his Temple Number
Two.

It was Hilda who said to me, ‘‘Would you like to hear how
the white man came to this planet Earth?’’

And she told me that key lesson of Mr. Elijah Muhammad’s
teachings, which I later learned was the demonology that every
religion has, called ‘‘Yacub’s History.’’ Elijah Muhammad
teaches his followers that, first, the moon separated from the

168 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

earth. Then, the first humans, Original Man, were a black peo-
ple. They founded the Holy City Mecca.

Among this black race were twenty-four wise scientists. One
of the scientists, at odds with the rest, created the especially
strong black tribe of Shabazz, from which America’s Negroes,
so-called, descend.

About sixty-six hundred years ago, when seventy per cent of
the people were satisfied, and thirty per cent were dissatisfied,
among the dissatisfied was born a ‘“‘Mr. Yacub.’’ He was born
to create trouble, to break the peace, and to kill. His head was
unusually large. When he was four years old, he began school.
At the age of eighteen, Yacub had finished all of his nation’s
colleges and universities. He was known as ‘‘the big-head sci-
entist.’” Among many other things, he had learned how to breed
races scientifically.

This big-head scientist, Mr. Yacub, began preaching in the
streets of Mecca, making such hosts of converts that the au-
thorities, increasingly concerned, finally exiled him with 59,999
followers to the island of Patmos—described in the Bible as the
island where John received the message contained in Revela-
tions in the New Testament.

Though he was a black man, Mr. Yacub, embittered toward
Allah now, decided, as revenge, to create upon the earth a devil
race—a bleached-out, white race of people.

From his studies, the big-head scientist knew that black men
contained two germs, black and brown. He knew that the brown
germ stayed dormant as, being the lighter of the two germs, it
was the weaker. Mr. Yacub, to upset the law of nature, con-
ceived the idea of employing what we today know as the reces-
sive genes structure, to separate from each other the two germs,
black and brown, and then grafting the brown germ to progres-
sively lighter, weaker stages. The humans resulting, he knew,
would be, as they became lighter, and weaker, progressively
also more susceptible to wickedness and evil. And in this way
finally he would achieve the intended bleached-out white race
of devils.

He knew that it would take him several total color-change
Stages to get from black to white. Mr. Yacub began his work
by setting up a eugenics law on the island of Patmos.

Among Mr. Yacub’s 59,999 all-black followers, every third

SATAN 169

or so child that was born would show some trace of brown. As
these became adult, only brown and brown, or black and brown,
were permitted to marry. As their children were bom, Mr. Ya-
cub’s law dictated that, if a black child, the attending nurse, or
midwife, should stick a needle into its brain and give the body
to cremators. The mothers were told it had been an ‘‘angel
baby,’’ which had gone to heaven, to prepare a place for her.

But a brown child’s mother was told to take very good care
of it.

Others, assistants, were trained by Mr. Yacub to continue his
objective. Mr. Yacub, when he died on the island at the age of
one hundred and fifty-two, had left laws, and rules, for them to
follow. According to the teachings of Mr. Elijah Muhammad,
Mr. Yacub, except in his mind, never saw the bleached-out devil
race that his procedures and laws and rules created.

A two-hundred-year span was needed to eliminate on the is-
land of Patmos all of the black people—until only brown people
remained.

The next two hundred years were needed to create from the
brown race the red race—with no more browns left on the island.

In another two hundred years, from the red race was created
the yellow race.

Two hundred years later—the white race had at last been cre-
ated.

On the island of Patmos was nothing but these blond, pale-
skinned, cold-blue-eyed devils—savages, nude and shameless;
hairy, like animals, they walked on all fours and they lived in
trees.

Six hundred more years passed before this race of people
returned to the mainland, among the natural black people.

Mr. Elijah Muhammad teaches his followers that within six

months’ time, through telling lies that set the black men fighting
among each other, this devil race had turned what had been a
peaceful heaven on earth into a hell torn by quarreling and fight-
ing.
But finally the original black people recognized that their sud-
den troubles stemmed from this devil white race that Mr. Yacub
had made. They rounded them up, put them in chains. With
little aprons to cover their nakedness, this devil race was marched
off across the Arabian desert to the caves of Europe.

170 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

The lambskin and the cable-tow used in Masonry today are
symbolic of how the nakedness of the white man was covered
when he was chained and driven across the hot sand.

Mr. Elijah Muhammad further teaches that the white devil
race in Europe’s caves was savage. The animals tried to kill
him. He climbed trees outside his cave, made clubs, trying to
protect his family from the wild beasts outside trying to get in.

When this devil race had spent two thousand years in the
caves, Allah raised up Moses to civilize them, and bring them
out of the caves. It was written that this devil white race would
rule the world for six thousand years.

The Books of Moses are missing. That’s why it is not known
that he was in the caves.

When Moses arrived, the first of these devils to accept his
teachings, the first he led out, were those we call today the Jews.

According to the teachings of this ‘“Yacub’s History,’’ when
the Bible says ‘‘Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,”’
that serpent is symbolic of the devil white race Moses lifted up
out of the caves of Europe, teaching them civilization.

It was written that after Yacub’s bleached white race had ruled
the world for six thousand years—down to our time—the black
original race would give birth to one whose wisdom, knowl-
edge, and power would be infinite.

It was written that some of the original black people should
be brought as slaves to North America—to learn to better un-
derstand, at first hand, the white devil’s true nature, in modern
times.

Elijah Muhammad teaches that the greatest and mightiest God
who appeared on the earth was Master W. D. Fard. He came
from the East to the West, appearing in North America at a time
when the history and the prophecy that is written was coming
to realization, as the non-white people all over the world began
to rise, and as the devil white civilization, condemned by Allah,
was, through its devilish nature, destroying itself.

Master W. D. Fard was half black and half white. He was
made in this way to enable him to be accepted by the black
people in America, and to lead them, while at the same time he
was enabled to move undiscovered among the white people, so
that he could understand and judge the enemy of the blacks.

Master W. D. Fard, in 1931, posing as a seller of silks, met,

SATAN 17]

in Detroit, Michigan, Elijah Muhammad. Master W. D. Fard
gave to Elijah Muhammad Allah’s message, and Allah’s divine
guidance, to save the Lost-Found Nation of Islam, the so-called
Negroes, here in ‘‘this wilderness of North America.”’

When my sister, Hilda, had finished telling me this ‘‘Yacub’s
History,’’ she left. I don’t know if I was able to open my mouth
and say good-bye.

I was to learn later that Elijah Muhammad’s tales, like this
one of ‘‘Yacub,’’ infuriated the Muslims of the East. While at
Mecca, I reminded them that it was their fault, since they them-
selves hadn’t done enough to make real Islam known in the
West. Their silence left a vacuum into which any religious faker
could step and mislead our people.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
SAVED

I did write to Elijah Muhammad. He lived in Chicago at that
time, at 6116 South Michigan Avenue. At least twenty-five times
I must have written that first one-page letter to him, over and
over. I was trying to make it both legible and understandable. I
practically couldn’t read my handwriting myself; it shames even
to remember it. My spelling and my grammar were as bad, if
not worse. Anyway, as well as I could express it, I said I had
been told about him by my brothers and sisters, and I apologized
for my poor letter.

Mr. Muhammad sent me a typed reply. It had an all but elec-
trical effect upon me to see the signature of the ‘‘Messenger of
Allah.’’ After he welcomed me into the ‘‘true knowledge,’’ he
gave me something to think about. The black prisoner, he said,
symbolized white society’s crime of keeping black men op-
pressed and deprived and ignorant, and unable to get decent
jobs, turing them into criminals.

He told me to have courage. He even enclosed some money
for me, a five-dollar bill. Mr. Muhammad sends money all over
the country to prison inmates who write to him, probably to this
day.

Regularly my family wrote to me, “‘Tum to Allah. . . pray
to the East.”’

The hardest test I ever faced in my life was praying. You
understand. My comprehending, my believing the teachings of
Mr. Muhammad had only required my mind’s saying to me,
‘*That’s right!’’ or ‘‘I never thought of that.’’

172

SAVED 173

But bending my knees to pray—that act—well, that took me
a week.

You know what my life had been. Picking a lock to rob some-
one’s house was the only way my knees had ever been bent
before.

I had to force myself to bend my knees. And waves of shame
and embarrassment would force me back up.

For evil to bend its knees, admitting its guilt, to implore the
forgiveness of God, is the hardest thing in the world. It’s easy
for me to see and to say that now. But then, when I was the
personification of evil, I was going through it. Again, again, I
would force myself back down into the praying-to-Allah pos-
ture. When finally I was able to make myself stay down—I
didn’t know what to say to Allah.

For the next years, I was the nearest thing to a hermit in the
Norfolk Prison Colony. I never have been more busy in my life.
I still marvel at how swiftly my previous life’s thinking pattern
slid away from me, like snow off a roof. It is as though someone
else I knew of had lived by hustling and crime. I would be
startled to catch myself thinking in a remote way of my earlier
self as another person.

The things I felt, I was pitifully unable to express in the one-
page letter that went every day to Mr. Elijah Muhammad. And
I wrote at ieast one more daily letter, replying to one of my
brothers and sisters. Every letter I received from them added
something to my knowledge of the teachings of Mr. Muham-
mad. I would sit for long periods and study his photographs.

I’ve never been one for inaction. Everything I’ve ever felt
strongly about, I’ve done something about. I guess that’s why,
unable to do anything else, I soon began writing to people I had
known in the hustling world, such as Sammy the Pimp, John
Hughes, the gambling-house owner, the thief Jumpsteady, and
several dope peddlers. I wrote them all about Allah and Islam
and Mr. Elijah Muhammad. I had no idea where most of them
lived. I addressed their letters in care of the Harlem or Roxbury
bars and clubs where I’d known them.

I never got a single reply. The average hustler and criminal
was too uneducated to write a letter. I have known many slick,
sharp-looking hustlers, who would have you think they had an
interest in Wall Street; privately, they would get someone else

174. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

to read a letter if they received one. Besides, neither would I
have replied to anyone writing me something as wild as ‘‘the
white man is the devil.’’

What certainly went on the Harlem and Roxbury wires was
that Detroit Red was going crazy in stir, or else he was trying
some hype to shake up the warden’s office.

During the years that I stayed in the Norfolk Prison Colony,
never did any official directly say anything to me about those
letters, although, of course, they all passed through the prison
censorship. I’m sure, however, they monitored what I wrote to
add to the files which every state and federal prison keeps on
the conversion of Negro inmates by the teachings of Mr. Elijah
Muhammad.

But at that time, I felt that the real reason was that the white
man knew that he was the devil.

Later on, I even wrote to the Mayor of Boston, to the Gov-
emor of Massachusetts, and to Harry S Truman. They never
answered; they probably never even saw my letters. I hand-
scratched to them how the white man’s society was responsible
for the black man’s condition in this wilderness of North Amer-
ica.

It was because of my letters that I happened to stumble upon
starting to acquire some kind of a homemade education.

J became increasingly frustrated at not being able to express
what I wanted to convey in letters that I wrote, especially those
to Mr. Elijah Muhammad. In the street, I had been the most
articulate hustler out there—I had commanded attention when I
said something. But now, trying to write simple English, I not
only wasn’t articulate, I wasn’t even functional. How would I
sound writing in slang, the way I would say it, something such
as, “‘Look, daddy, let me pull your coat about a cat, Elijah
Muhammad—”’

Many who today hear me somewhere in person, or on tele-
vision, or those who read something I’ve said, will think I went
to school far beyond the eighth grade. This impression is due
entirely to my prison studies.

It had really begun back in the Charlestown Prison, when
Bimbi first made me feel envy of his stock of knowledge. Bimbi
had always taken charge of any conversation he was in, and I
had tried to emulate him. But every book I picked up had few

SAVED 175

sentences which didn’t contain anywhere from one to nearly all
of the words that might as well have been in Chinese. When I
just skipped those words, of course, I really ended up with little
idea of what the book said. So I had come to the Norfolk Prison
Colony still going through only book-reading motions. Pretty
soon, I would have quit even these motions, unless I had re-
ceived the motivation that I did.

I saw that the best thing I could do was get hold of a dictio-
nary—to study, to learn some words. I was lucky enough to
reason also that I should try to improve my penmanship. It was
sad. I couldn’t even write in a straight line. It was both ideas
together that moved me to request a dictionary along with some
tablets and pencils from the Norfolk Prison Colony school.

I spent two days just rifling uncertainly through the dictio-
nary’s pages. I’d never realized so many words existed! I didn’t
know which words I needed to learn. Finally, just to start some
kind of action, I began copying.

In my slow, painstaking, ragged handwriting, I copied into
my tablet everything printed on that first page, down to the
punctuation marks.

I believe it took me a day. Then, aloud, I read back, to myself,
everything I’d written on the tablet. Over and over, aloud, to
myself, I read my own handwriting.

I woke up the next morning, thinking about those words—
immensely proud to realize that not only had I written so much
at one time, but I’d written words that I never knew were in the
world. Moreover, with a little effort, I also could remember
what many of these words meant. I reviewed the words whose
meanings I didn’t remember. Funny thing, from the dictionary
first page right now, that ‘‘aardvark’’ springs to my mind. The
dictionary had a picture of it, a long-tailed, long-eared, burrow-
ing African mammal, which lives off termites caught by sticking
Out its tongue as an anteater does for ants.

I was so fascinated that I went on—I copied the dictionary’s
next page. And the same experience came when I studied that.
With every succeeding page, I also learned of people and places
and events from history. Actually the dictionary is like a minia-
ture encyclopedia. Finally the dictionary’s A section had filled
a whole tablet—and I went on into the B’s. That was the way I
started copying what eventually became the entire dictionary. It

176 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

went a lot faster after so much practice helped me to pick up
handwriting speed. Between what I wrote in my tablet, and writ-
ing letters, during the rest of my time in prison I would guess I
wrote a million words.

I suppose it was inevitable that as my word-base broadened,
I could for the first time pick up a book and read and now begin
to understand what the book was saying. Anyone who has read
a great deal can imagine the new world that opened. Let me tell
you something: from then until I left that prison, in every free
moment I had, if I was not reading in the library, I was reading
on my bunk. You couldn’t have gotten me out of books with a
wedge. Between Mr. Muhammad’s teachings, my correspon-
dence, my visitors—usually Ella and Reginald—and my reading
of books, months passed without my even thinking about being
imprisoned. In fact, up to then, I never had been so truly free in
my life.

The Norfolk Prison Colony’s library was in the school build-
ing. A variety of classes was taught there by instructors who
came from such places as Harvard and Boston universities. The
weekly debates between inmate teams were also held in the
school building. You would be astonished to know how worked
up convict debaters and audiences would get over subjects like
**Should Babies Be Fed Milk?’’

Available on the prison library’s shelves were books on just
about every general subject. Much of the big private collection
that Parkhurst had willed to the prison was still in crates and
boxes in the back of the library—thousands of old books. Some
of them looked ancient: covers faded, old-time parchment-
looking binding. Parkhurst, I’ve mentioned, seemed to have
been principally interested in history and religion. He had the
money and the special interest to have a lot of books that you
wouldn’t have in general circulation. Any college library would
have been lucky to get that collection.

As you can imagine, especially in a prison where there was
heavy emphasis on rehabilitation, an inmate was smiled upon if
he demonstrated an unusually intense interest in books. There
was a sizable number of well-read inmates, especially the pop-
ular debaters. Some were said by many to be practically walking
encyclopedias. They were almost celebrities. No university

SAVED 177

would ask any student to devour literature as I did when this
new world opened to me, of being able to read and understand.

I read more in my room than in the library itself. An inmate
who was known to read a lot could check out more than the
permitted maximum number of books. I preferred reading in the
total isolation of my owri room.

When I had progressed to really serious reading, every night
at about ten P.M. I would be outraged with the ‘‘lights out.’’ It
always seemed to catch me right in the middle of something
engrossing.

Fortunately, right outside my door was a corridor light that
cast a glow into my room. The glow was enough to read by,
once my eyes adjusted to it. So when “‘lights out’’ came, I would
sit on the floor where I could continue reading in that glow.

At one-hour intervals the night guards paced past every room.
Each time I heard the approaching footsteps, I jumped into bed
and feigned sleep. And as soon as the guard passed, I got back
out of bed onto the floor area of that light-glow, where I would
read for another fifty-eight minutes—until the guard approached
again. That went on until three or four every morning. Three or
four hours of sleep a night was enough for me. Often in the
years in the streets I had slept less than that.

The teachings of Mr. Muhammad stressed how history had
been ‘‘whitened’’—when white men had written history books,
the black man simply had been left out. Mr. Muhammad couldn’t
have said anything that would have struck me much harder. I
had never forgotten how when my class, me and all of those
whites, had studied seventh-grade United States history back in
Mason, the history of the Negro had been covered in one para-
graph, and the teacher had gotten a big laugh with his joke,
‘*Negroes’ feet are so big that when they walk, they leave a hole
in the ground.”’

This is one reason why Mr. Muhammad’s teachings spread
so swiftly all over the United States, among all Negroes, whether
or not they became followers of Mr. Muhammad. The teachings
ring true—to every Negro. You can hardly show me a black
adult in America—or a white one, for that matter—who knows
from the history books anything like the truth about the black
man’s role. In my own case, once IJ heard of the “‘glorious

178 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

history of the black man,’’ I took special pains to hunt in the
library for books that would inform me on details about black
history.

I can remember accurately the very first set of books that
really impressed me. I have since bought that set of books and
have it at home for my children to read as they grow up. It’s
called Wonders of the World. It’s full of pictures of archeolog-
ical finds, statues that depict, usually, non-European people.

I found books like Will Durant’s Story of Civilization. I read
H. G. Wells’ Outline of History. Souls Of Black Folk by
W. E. B. Du Bois gave me a glimpse into the black people’s
history before they came to this country. Carter G. Woodson’s
Negro History opened my eyes about black empires before the
black slave was brought to the United States, and the early Ne-
gro struggles for freedom.

J. A. Rogers’ three volumes of Sex and Race told about race-
mixing before Christ’s time; about Aesop being a black man
who told fables; about Egypt’s Pharaohs; about the great Coptic
Christian Empires; about Ethiopia, the earth’s oldest continuous
black civilization, as China is the oldest continuous civilization.

Mr. Muhammad’s teaching about how the white man had
been created led me to Findings In Genetics by Gregor Mendel.
(The dictionary’s G section was where I had learned what “‘ge-
netics’’ meant.) I really studied this book by the Austrian monk.
Reading it over and over, especially certain sections, helped me
to understand that if you started with a black man, a white man
could be produced; but starting with a white man, you never
could produce a black man—because the white gene is recessive.
And since no one disputes that there was but one Original Man,
the conclusion is clear.

During the last year or so, in the New York Times, Arnold
Toynbee used the word “‘bleached’’ in describing the white man.
(His words were: ‘‘White (i.e. bleached) human beings of North
European origin. . . .’’) Toynbee also referred to the European
geographic area as only a peninsula of Asia. He said there is no
such thing as Europe. And if you look at the globe, you will see
for yourself that America is only an extension of Asia. (But at
the same time Toynbee is among those who have helped to
bleach history. He has written that Africa was the only continent

SAVED 179

that produced no history. He won’t wnite that again. Every day
now, the truth is coming to light.)

I never will forget how shocked I was when I began reading
about slavery’s total horror. It made such an impact upon me
that it later became one of my favorite subjects when I became
a minister of Mr. Muhammad’s. The world’s most monstrous
crime, the sin and the blood on the white man’s hands, are
almost impossible to believe. Books like the one by Frederick
Olmstead opened my eyes to the horrors suffered when the slave
was landed in the United States. The European woman, Fannie
Kimball, who had married a Southern white slaveowner, de-
scribed how human beings were degraded. Of course I read
Uncle Tom’s Cabin. In fact, I believe that’s the only novel I
have ever read since I started serious reading.

Parkhurst’s collection also contained some bound pamphlets
of the Abolitionist Anti-Slavery Society of New England. I read
descriptions of atrocities, saw those illustrations of black slave
women tied up and flogged with whips; of black mothers watch-
ing their babies being dragged off, never to be seen by their
mothers again; of dogs after slaves, and of the fugitive slave
catchers, evil white men with whips and clubs and chains and
guns. I read about the slave preacher Nat Turner, who put the
fear of God into the white slavemaster. Nat Turner wasn’t going
around preaching pie-in-the-sky and ‘‘non-violent’’ freedom for
the black man. There in Virginia one night in 1831, Nat and
seven other slaves started out at his master’s home and through
the night they went from one plantation “‘big house’’ to the next,
killing, until by the next morming 57 white people were dead
and Nat had about 70 slaves following him. White people, ter-
rified for their lives, fled from their homes, locked themselves
up in public buildings, hid in the woods, and some even left the
state. A small army of soldiers took two months to catch and
hang Nat Turner. Somewhere I have read where Nat Turner’s
example is said to have inspired John Brown to invade Virginia
and attack Harper’s Ferry nearly thirty years later, with thirteen
white men and five Negroes.

I read Herodotus, ‘‘the father of History,’’ or, rather, I read
about him. And I read the histories of various nations, which
opened my eyes gradually, then wider and wider, to how the
whole world’s white men had indeed acted like devils, pillaging

180 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

and raping and bleeding and draining the whole world’s non-
white people. I remember, for instance, books such as Will
Durant’s story of Oriental civilization, and Mahatma Gandhi’s
accounts of the struggle to drive the British out of India.

Book after book showed me how the white man had brought
upon the world’s black, brown, red, and yellow peoples every
variety of the sufferings of exploitation. I saw how since the
sixteenth century, the so-called ‘‘Christian trader’’ white man
began to ply the seas in his lust for Asian and African empires,
and plunder, and power. I read, I saw, how the white man never
has gone among the non-white peoples bearing the Cross in the
true manner and spirit of Christ’s teachings—meek, humble, and
Christ-like.

I perceived, as I read, how the collective white man had been
actually nothing but a piratical opportunist who used Faustian
machinations to make his own Chnistianity his initial wedge in
criminal conquests. First, always ‘‘religiously,’’ he branded
‘‘heathen’’ and ‘‘pagan’’ labels upon ancient non-white cultures
and civilizations. The stage thus set, he then turned upon his
non-white victims his weapons of war.

I read how, entering India—half a billion deeply religious
brown people—the British white man, by 1759, through prom-
ises, trickery and manipulations, controlled much of India
through Great Britain’s East India Company. The parasitical
British administration kept tentacling out to half of the sub-
continent. In 1857, some of the desperate people of India finally
mutinied—and, excepting the African slave trade, nowhere has
history recorded any more unnecessary bestial and ruthless
human carnage than the British suppression of the non-white
Indian people.

Over 115 million African blacks—close to the 1930’s popu-
lation of the United States—were murdered or enslaved during
the slave trade. And I read how when the slave market was
glutted, the cannibalistic white powers of Europe next carved
up, as their colonies, the richest areas of the black continent.
And Europe’s chancelleries for the next century played a chess
game of naked exploitation and power from Cape Hom to Cairo.

Ten guards and the warden couldn’t have torn me out of those
books. Not even Elijah Muhammad could have been more eio-
quent than those books were in providing indisputable proof that

SAVED 18l

the collective white man had acted like a devil in virtually every
contact he had with the world’s collective non-white man. I
listen today to the radio, and watch television, and read the
headlines about the collective white man’s fear and tension con-
ceming China. When the white man professes ignorance about
why the Chinese hate him so, my mind can’t help flashing back
to what I read, there in prison, about how the blood forebears
of this same white man raped China at a time when China was
trusting and helpless. Those original white ‘“Christian traders”’
sent into China millions of pounds of opium. By 1839, so many
of the Chinese were addicts that China’s desperate government
destroyed twenty thousand chests of opium. The first Opium
War was promptly declared by the white man. Imagine! De-
claring war upon someone who objects to being narcotized! The
Chinese were severely beaten, with Chinese-invented gunpow-
der.

The Treaty of Nanking made China pay the British white man
for the destroyed opium; forced open China’s major ports to
British trade; forced China to abandon Hong Kong; fixed China’s
import tariffs so low that cheap British articles soon flooded in,
maiming China’s industrial development.

After a second Opium War, the Tientsin Treaties legalized
the ravaging opium trade, legalized a British-French-American
control of China’s customs. China tried delaying that Treaty’s
ratification; Peking was looted and bummed.

**Kill the foreign white devils!’’ was the 1901 Chinese war
Cry in the Boxer Rebellion. Losing again, this time the Chinese
were driven from Peking’s choicest areas. The vicious, arrogant
white man put up the famous signs, ‘“‘Chinese and dogs not
allowed.”’

Red China after World War II closed its doors to the Western
white world. Massive Chinese agricultural, scientific, and in-
dustrial efforts are described in a book that Life magazine re-
cently published. Some observers inside Red China have
reported that the world never has known such a hate-white
Campaign as is now going on in this non-white country where,
present birth-rates continuing, in fifty more years Chinese will
be half the earth’s population. And it seems that some Chinese
chickens will soon come home to roost, with China’s recent
successful nuclear tests.

182 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Let us face reality. We can see in the United Nations a new
world order being shaped, along color lines—an alliance among
the non-white nations. America’s U.N. Ambassador Adlai Ste-
venson complained not long ago that in the United Nations ‘‘a
skin game’’ was being played. He was nght. He was facing
reality. A ‘‘skin game’”’ is being played. But Ambassador Ste-
venson sounded like Jesse James accusing the marshal of car-
rying a gun. Because who in the world’s history ever has played
a worse “‘skin game’’ than the white man?

Mr. Muhammad, to whom I was writing daily, had no idea
of what a new world had opened up to me through my efforts to
document his teachings in books.

When I discovered philosophy, I tried to touch all the land-
marks of philosophical development. Gradually, I read most of
the old philosophers, Occidental and Oriental. The Oriental phi-
losophers were the ones I came to prefer; finally, my impression
was that most Occidental philosophy had largely been borrowed
from the Oriental thinkers. Socrates, for instance, traveled in
Egypt. Some sources even say that Socrates was initiated into
some of the Egyptian mysteries. Obviously Socrates got some
of his wisdom among the East’s wise men.

I have often reflected upon the new vistas that reading opened
to me. I knew right there in prison that reading had changed
forever the course of my life. As I see it today, the ability to
read awoke inside me some long dormant craving to be mentally
alive. I certainly wasn’t seeking any degree, the way a college
confers a status symbol upon its students. My homemade edu-
cation gave me, with every additional book that I read, a little
bit more sensitivity to the deafness, dumbness, and blindness
that was afflicting the black race in America. Not long ago, an
English writer telephoned me from London, asking questions.
One was, ‘‘What’s your alma mater?’’ I told him, ‘“Books.’’
You will never catch me with a free fifteen minutes in which
I’m not studying something I feel might be able to help the black
man.

Yesterday I spoke in London, and both ways on the plane
across the Atlantic I was studying a document about how the
United Nations proposes to insure the human rights of the op-
pressed minorities of the world. The American black man is the

SAVED 183

world’s most shameful case of minority oppression. What makes
the black man think of himself as only an internal United States
issue 1s just a catch-phrase, two words, “‘civil nghts.’’ How is
the black man going to get ‘‘civil rights’’ before first he wins
his human rights? If the American black man will start thinking
about his human rights, and then start thinking of himself as part
of one of the world’s great peoples, he will see he has a case for
the United Nations.

I can’t think of a better case! Four hundred years of black
blood and sweat invested here in America, and the white man
still has the black man begging for what every immigrant fresh
off the ship can take for granted the minute he walks down the
gangplank.

But I’m digressing. I told the Englishman that my alma mater
was books, a good library. Every time I catch a plane, I have
with me a book that I want to read—and that’s a lot of books
these days. If I weren’t out here every day battling the white
man, I could spend the rest of my life reading, just satisfying
my curiosity—because you can hardly mention anything I’m not
curious about. I don’t think anybody ever got more out of going
to prison than I did. In fact, prison enabled me to study far more
intensively than I would have if my life had gone differently and
I had attended some college. I imagine that one of the biggest
troubles with colleges is there are too many distractions, too
much panty-raiding, fraternities, and boola-boola and all of that.
Where else but in a prison could I have attacked my ignorance
by being able to study intensely sometimes as much as fifteen
hours a day?

Schopenhauer, Kant, Nietzsche, naturally, I read all of those.
I don’t respect them; I am just trying to remember some of those
whose theories I soaked up in those years. These three, it’s said,
laid the groundwork on which the Fascist and Nazi philosophy
was built. I don’t respect them because it seems to me that most
of their time was spent arguing about things that are not really
important. They remind me of so many of the Negro ‘‘intellec-
tuals,’’ so-called, with whom I have come in contact—they are
always arguing about something useless.

Spinoza impressed me for a while when I found out that he
was black. A black Spanish Jew. The Jews excommunicated
him because he advocated a pantheistic doctrine, something like

184 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

the ‘‘allness of God,’’ or ‘‘God in everything.’’ The Jews read
their burial services for Spinoza, meaning that he was dead as
far as they were concerned; his family was run out of Spain,
they ended up in Holland, I think.

Ill tell you something. The whole stream of Western philos-
ophy has now wound up in a cul-de-sac. The white man has
perpetrated upon himself, as well as upon the black man, so
gigantic a fraud that he has put himself into a crack. He did it
through his elaborate, neurotic necessity to hide the black man’s
true role in history.

And today the white man is faced head on with what is hap-
pening on the Black Continent, Africa. Look at the artifacts
being discovered there, that are proving over and over again,
how the black man had great, fine, sensitive civilizations before
the white man was out of the caves. Below the Sahara, in the
places where most of America’s Negroes’ foreparents were kid-
napped, there is being unearthed some of the finest craftsman-
ship, sculpture and other objects, that has ever been seen by
modem man. Some of these things now are on view in such
places as New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Gold
work of such fine tolerance and workmanship that it has no rival.
Ancient objects produced by black hands . . . refined by those
black hands with results that no human hand today can equal.

History has been so ‘‘whitened’’ by the white man that even
the black professors have known little more than the most ig-
norant black man about the talents and rich civilizations and
cultures of the black man of millenniums ago. I have lectured
in Negro colleges and some of these brainwashed black Ph.D.’s,
with their suspenders dragging the ground with degrees, have
run to the white man’s newspapers calling me a ‘‘black fanatic.’’
Why, a lot of them are fifty years behind the times. If I were
president of one of these black colleges, I'd hock the campus if
I had to, to send a bunch of black students off digging in Africa
for more, more and more proof of the black race’s historical
greatness. The white man now is in Africa digging and search-
ing. An African elephant can’t stumble without falling on some
white man with a shovel. Practically every week, we read about
some great new find from Africa’s lost civilizations. All that’s
new is white science’s attitude. The ancient civilizations of the
black man have been buried on the Black Continent all the time.

SAVED 185

Here is an example: a British anthropologist named Dr. Lou-
is S. B. Leakey is displaying some fossil bones—a foot, part
of a hand, some jaws, and skull fragments. On the basis of these,
Dr. Leakey has said it’s time to rewrite completely the history
of man’s origin.

This species of man lived 1,818,036 years before Christ. And
these bones were found in Tanganyika. In the Black Continent.

It’s a crime, the lie that has been told to generations of black
men and white men both. Little innocent black children, born
of parents who believed that their race had no history. Little
black children seeing, before they could talk, that their parents
considered themselves inferior. Innocent black children growing
up, living out their lives, dying of old age—and all of their lives
ashamed of being black. But the truth is pouring out of the bag
now.

Two other areas of experience which have been extremely
formative in my life since prison were first opened to me in the
Norfolk Prison Colony. For one thing, I had my first experiences
in opening the eyes of my brainwashed black brethren to some
truths about the black race. And, the other: when I had read
enough to know something, I began to enter the Prison Colony’s
weekly debating program—my baptism into public speaking.

I have to admit a sad, shameful fact. I had so loved being
around the white man that in prison I really disliked how Negro
convicts stuck together so much. But when Mr. Muhammad’s
teachings reversed my attitude toward my black brothers, in my
guilt and shame I began to catch every chance I could to recruit
for Mr. Muhammad.

You have to be careful, very careful, introducing the truth to
the black man who has never previously heard the truth about
himself, his own kind, and the white man. My brother Reginald
had told me that all Muslims experienced this in their recruiting
for Mr. Muhammad. The black brother is so brainwashed that
he may even be repelled when he first hears the truth. Reginald
advised that the truth had to be dropped only a little bit at a time.
And you had to wait a while to let it sink in before advancing
the next step.

I began first telling my black brother inmates about the glo-
rious history of the black man—things they never had dreamed.
I told them the horrible slavery-trade truths that they never knew.

186 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I would watch their faces when I told them about that, because
the white man had completely erased the slaves’ past, a Negro
in America can never know his true family name, or even what
tribe he was descended from: the Mandingos, the Wolof, the
Serer, the Fula, the Fanti, the Ashanti, or others. I told them
that some slaves brought from Africa spoke Arabic, and were
Islamic in their religion. A lot of these black convicts still
wouldn’t believe it unless they could see that a white man had
said it. So, often, I would read to these brothers selected pas-
sages from white men’s books. I’d explain to them that the real
truth was known to some white men, the scholars; but there had
been a conspiracy down through the generations to keep the truth
from black men.

I would keep close watch on how each one reacted. I always
had to be careful. I never knew when some brainwashed black
imp, some dyed-in-the-wool Uncle Tom, would nod at me and
then go running to tell the white man. When one was ripe—and
I could tell—then away from the rest, I’d drop it on him, what
Mr. Muhammad taught: ‘‘The white man is the devil.’’

That would shock many of them—until they started thinking
about it.

This is probably as big a single worry as the American prison
system has today—the way the Muslim teachings, circulated
among all Negroes in the country, are converting new Muslims
among black men in prison, and black men are in prison in far
greater numbers than their proportion in the population.

The reason is that among all Negroes the black convict is the
most perfectly preconditioned to hear the words, ‘‘the white man
is the devil.”’

You tell that to any Negro. Except for those relatively few
‘‘integration’’-mad so-called ‘‘intellectuals,’’ and those black
men who are otherwise fat, happy, and deaf, dumb, and blinded,
“with their crumbs from the white man’s rich table, you have
struck a nerve center in the American black man. He may take
a day to react, a month, a year; he may never respond, openly;
but of one thing you can be sure—when he thinks about his own
life, he is going to see where, to him, personally, the white man
sure has acted like a devil.

And, as I say, above all Negroes, the black prisoner. Here is
a black man caged behind bars, probably for years, put there by

SAVED 187

the white man. Usually the convict comes from among those
bottom-of-the-pile Negroes, the Negroes who through their en-
tire lives have been kicked about, treated like children—Negroes
who never have met one white man who didn’t either take some-
thing from them or do something to them.

You let this caged-up black man start thinking, the same way
I did when I first heard Elijah Muhammad’s teachings: let him
start thinking how, with better breaks when he was young and
ambitious he might have been a lawyer, a doctor, a scientist,
anything. You let this caged-up black man start realizing, as I
did, how from the first landing of the first slave ship, the millions
of black men in America have been like sheep in a den of wolves.
That’s why black prisoners become Muslims so fast when Elijah
Muhammad’s teachings filter into their cages by way of other
Muslim convicts. ‘“The white man is the devil’’ is a perfect echo
of that black convict’s lifelong experience.

I’ve told how debating was a weekly event there at the Nor-
folk Prison Colony. My reading had my mind like steam under
pressure. Some way, I had to start telling the white man about
himself to his face. I decided I could do this by putting my name
down to debate.

Standing up and speaking before an audience was a thing that
throughout my previous life never would have crossed my mind.
Out there in the streets, hustling, pushing dope, and robbing, I
could have had the dreams from a pound of hashish and I’d never
have dreamed anything so wild as that one day I would speak
in coliseums and arenas, at the greatest American universities,
and on radio and television programs, not to mention speaking
all over Egypt and Africa and in England.

But I will tell you that, right there, in the prison, debating,
speaking to a crowd, was as exhilarating to me as the discovery
of knowledge through reading had been. Standing up there, the
faces looking up at me, things in my head coming out of my
mouth, while my brain searched for the next best thing to follow
what I was saying, and if I could sway them to my side by
handling it nght, then I had won the debate—once my feet got
wet, I was gone on debating. Whichever side of the selected
subject was assigned to me, I’d track down and study everything
I could find on it. I’d put myself in my opponent’s place and
decide how I'd try to win if I had the other side; and then I’d

188 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

figure a way to knock down those points. And if there was any
way in the world, I’d work into my speech the devilishness of
the white man.

‘‘Compulsory Military Training—Or None?’”’ That’s one good
chance I got unexpectedly, I remember. My opponent flailed the
air about the Ethiopians throwing rocks and spears at Italian
airplanes, ‘‘proving’’ that compulsory military training was
needed. I said the Ethiopians’ black flesh had been spattered
against trees by bombs the Pope in Rome had blessed, and the
Ethiopians would have thrown even their bare bodies at the air-
planes because they had seen that they were fighting the devil
incamate.

They yelled ‘“‘foul,’’ that I’d made the subject a race issue. I
Said it wasn’t race, it was a historical fact, that they ought to go
and read Pierre van Paassen’s Days of Our Years, and something
not surprising to me, that book, right after the debate, disap-
peared from the prison library. It was nght there in prison that
I made up my mind to devote the rest of my life to telling the
white man about himself—or die. In a debate about whether or
not Homer had ever existed, I threw into those white faces the
theory that Homer only symbolized how white Europeans kid-
napped black Africans, then blinded them so that they could
never get back to their own people. (Homer and Omar and Moor,
you see, are related terms; it’s like saying Peter, Pedro, and
petra, all three of which mean rock.) These blinded Moors the
Europeans taught to sing about the Europeans’ glorious accom-
plishments. I made it clear that was the devilish white man’s
idea of kicks. Aesop’s Fables—another case in point. ‘‘Aesop’’
was only the Greek name for an Ethiopian.

Another hot debate I remember I was in had to do with the
identity of Shakespeare. No color was involved there; I just got
intrigued over the Shakespearean dilemma. The King James
translation of the Bible is considered the greatest piece of liter-
ature in English. Its language supposedly represents the ultimate
in using the King’s English. Well, Shakespeare’s language and
the Bible’s language are one and the same. They say that from
1604 to 1611, King James got poets to translate, to write the
Bible. Well, if Shakespeare existed, he was then the top poet
around. But Shakespeare is nowhere reported connected with

SAVED 189

the Bible. If he existed, why didn’t King James use him? And
if he did use him, why is it one of the world’s best kept secrets?

I know that many say that Francis Bacon was Shakespeare. If
that is true, why would Bacon have kept it secret? Bacon wasn’t
royalty, when royalty sometimes used the nom de plume because
it was ‘‘improper’’ for royalty to be artistic or theatrical. What
would Bacon have had to lose? Bacon, in fact, would have had
everything to gain.

In the prison debates I argued for the theory that King James
himself was the real poet who used the nom de plume Shake-
speare. King James was brilliant. He was the greatest king who
ever sat on the British throne. Who else among royalty, in his
time, would have had the giant talent to write Shakespeare’s
works? It was he who poetically ‘‘fixed’’ the Bible—which in
itself and its present King James version has enslaved the world.

When my brother Reginald visited, I would talk to him about
new evidence I found to document the Muslim teachings. In
either volume 43 or 44 of The Harvard Classics, I read Milton’s
Paradise Lost. The devil, kicked out of Paradise, was trying to
regain possession. He was using the forces of Europe, personi-
fied by the Popes, Charlemagne, Richard the Lionhearted, and
other knights. I interpreted this to show that the Europeans were
motivated and led by the devil, or the personification of the
devil. So Milton and Mr. Elijah Muhammad were actually say-
ing the same thing.

I couldn’t believe it when Reginald began to speak ill of Elijah
Muhammad. I can’t specify the exact things he said. They were
more in the nature of implications against Mr. Muhammad—the
pitch of Reginald’s voice, or the way that Reginald looked,
rather than what he said.

It caught me totally unprepared. It threw me into a state of
confusion. My blood brother, Reginald, in whom I had so much
confidence, for whom I had so much respect, the one who had
introduced me to the Nation of Islam. I couldn’t believe it! And
now Islam meant more to me than anything I ever had known
in my life. Islam and Mr. Elijah Muhammad had changed my
whole world.

Reginald, I learned, had been suspended from the Nation of
Islam by Elyjah Muhammad. He had not practiced moral re-

190 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

straint. After he had learned the truth, and had accepted the
truth, and the Muslim laws, Reginald was still carrying on im-
proper relations with the then secretary of the New York Tem-
ple. Some other Muslim who learmed of it had made charges
against Reginald to Mr. Muhammad in Chicago, and Mr. Mu-
hammad had suspended Reginald.

When Reginald left, I was in torment. That night, finally, I
wrote to Mr. Muhammad, trying to defend my brother, appeal-
ing for him. I told him what Reginald was to me, what my
brother meant to me.

I put the letter into the box for the prison censor. Then all the
rest of that night, I prayed to Allah. I don’t think anyone ever
prayed more sincerely to Allah. I prayed for some kind of relief
from my confusion.

It was the next night, as I lay on my bed, I suddenly, with a
start, became aware of a man sitting beside me in my chair. He
had on a dark suit. I remember. I could see him as plainly as I
see anyone I look at. He wasn’t black, and he wasn’t white. He
was light-brown-skinned, an Asiatic cast of countenance, and
he had oily black hair.

I looked right into his face.

I didn’t get frightened. I knew I wasn’t dreaming. I couldn’t
move, I didn’t speak, and he didn’t. I couldn’t place him ra-
cially—other than that I knew he was a non-European. I had no
idea whatsoever who he was. He just sat there. Then, suddenly
as he had come, he was gone.

Soon, Mr. Muhammad sent me a reply about Reginald. He
wrote, “‘If you once believed in the truth, and now you are
beginning to doubt the truth, you didn’t believe the truth in the
first place. What could make you doubt the truth other than your
own weak self?’’

That struck me. Reginald was not leading the disciplined life
of a Muslim. And I knew that Elijah Muhammad was right, and
my blood brother was wrong. Because right is right, and wrong
is wrong. Little did I then realize the day would come when
Elijah Muhammad would be accused by his own sons as being
guilty of the same acts of immorality that he judged Reginald
and so many others for.

But at that time, all of the doubt and confusion in my mind
was removed. All of the influence that my brother had wielded

SAVED 191

over me was broken. From that day on, as far as Iam concerned,
everything that my brother Reginald has done is wrong.

But Reginald kept visiting me. When he had been a Muslim,
he had been immaculate in his attire. But now, he wore things
like a T-shirt, shabby-looking trousers, and sneakers. I could
see him on the way down. When he spoke, I heard him coldly.
But I would listen. He was my blood brother.

Gradually, I saw the chastisement of Allah—what Christians
would call ‘‘the curse’’—come upon Reginald. Elijah Muham-
mad said that Allah was chastising Reginald—and that anyone
who challenged Elijah Muhammad would be chastened by AI-
lah. In Islam we were taught that as long as one didn’t know the
truth, he lived in darkness. But once the truth was accepted, and
recognized, he lived in light, and whoever would then go against
it would be punished by Allah.

Mr. Muhammad taught that the five-pointed star stands for
justice, and also for the five senses of man. We were taught that
Allah executes justice by working upon the five senses of those
who rebel against His Messenger, or against His truth. We were
taught that this was Allah’s way of letting Muslims know His
sufficiency to defend His Messenger against any and all oppo-
sition, as long as the Messenger himself didn’t deviate from the
path of truth. We were taught that Allah turned the minds of any
defectors into a turmoil. I thought truly that it was Allah doing
this to my brother.

One letter, I think from my brother Philbert, told me that
Reginald was with them in Detroit. I heard no more about Reg-
inald until one day, weeks later, Ella visited me; she told me
that Reginald was at her home in Roxbury, sleeping. Ella said
she had heard a knock, she had gone to the door, and there was
Reginald, looking terrible. Ella said she had asked, ‘‘Where did
you come from?’’ And Reginald had told her he came from
Detroit. She said she asked him, ‘‘How did you get here?’’ And
he had told her, ‘‘I walked.”’

I believed he had walked. I believed in Elijah Muhammad,
and he had convinced us that Allah’s chastisement upon Regi-
nald’s mind had taken away Reginald’s ability to gauge distance
and time. There is a dimension of time with which we are not
familiar here in the West. Elijah Muhammad said that under
Allah’s chastisement, the five senses of a man can be so de-

192 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

ranged by those whose mental powers are greater than his that
in five minutes his hair can turn snow white. Or he will walk
nine hundred miles as he might walk five blocks.

In prison, since I had become a Muslim, I had grown a beard.
When Reginald visited me, he nervously moved about in his
chair; he told me that each hair on my beard was a snake.
Everywhere, he saw snakes.

He next began to believe that he was the ‘Messenger of Al-
lah.’’ Reginald went around in the streets of Roxbury, Ella re-
ported to me, telling people that he had some divine power. He
graduated from this to saying that he was Allah.

He finally began saying he was greater than Allah.

Authorities picked up Reginald, and he was put into an insti-
tution. They couldn’t find what was wrong. They had no way
to understand Allah’s chastisement. Reginald was released. Then
he was picked up again, and was put into another institution.

Reginald is in an institution now. I know where, but I won’t
say. I would not want to cause him any more trouble than he
has already had.

I believe, today, that it was written, it was meant, for Regi-
nald to be used for one purpose only: as a bait, as a minnow to
reach into the ocean of blackness where I was, to save me.

I cannot understand it any other way.

After Elijah Muhammad himself was later accused as a very
immoral man, I came to believe that it wasn’t a divine chastise-
ment upon Reginald, but the pain he felt when his own family
totally rejected him for Elijah Muhammad, and this hurt made
Reginald turn insanely upon Elijah Muhammad.

It’s impossible to dream, or to see, or to have a vision of
someone whom you never have seen before—and to see him
exactly as he is. To see someone, and to see him exactly as he
looks, is to have a pre-vision.

I would later come to believe that my pre-vision was of Master
W. D. Fard, the Messiah, the one whom Elijah Muhammad
said had appointed him—Elijah Muhammad—as His Last Mes-
senger to the black people of North America.

My last year in prison was spent back in the Charlestown
Prison. Even among the white inmates, the word had filtered
around. Some of those brainwashed black convicts talked too

SAVED 193

much. And I know that the censors had reported on my mail.
The Norfolk Prison Colony officials had become upset. They
used as a reason for my transfer that I refused to take some kind
of shots, an inoculation or something.

The only thing that worned me was that I hadn’t much time
left before I would be eligible for parole-board consideration.
But I reasoned that they might look at my representing and
spreading Islam in another way: instead of keeping me in they
might want to get me out.

I had come to prison with 20/20 vision. But when I got sent
back to Charlestown, I had read so much by the lights-out glow
in my room at the Norfolk Prison Colony that I had astigmatism
and the first pair of the eyeglasses that I have worn ever since.

I had less maneuverability back in the much stricter Charles-
town Prison. But I found that a lot of Negroes attended a Bible
class, and I went there.

Conducting the class was a tall, blond, blue-eyed (a perfect
‘‘devil’’?) Harvard Seminary student. He lectured, and then he
started in a question-and-answer session. I don’t know which of
us had read the Bible more, he or I, but I had to give him credit;
he really was heavy on his religion. I puzzled and puzzled for a
way to upset him, and to give those Negroes present something
to think and talk about and circulate.

Finally, I put up my hand; he nodded. He had talked about
Paul.

I stood up and asked, ‘‘What color was Paul?’’ And I kept
talking, with pauses, ‘‘He had to be black . . . because he was
a Hebrew . . . and the original Hebrews were black. . . weren’t
they?’’

He had started flushing red. You know the way white people
do. He said **Yes.’’

I wasn’t through yet. ““‘What color was Jesus .. . he was
Hebrew, too. . . wasn’t he?”’

Both the Negro and the white convicts had sat bolt upright. I
don’t care how tough the convict, be he brainwashed black
Christian, or a ‘“devil’’ white Christian, neither of them is ready
to hear anybody saying Jesus wasn’t white. The instructor
walked around. He shouldn’t have felt bad. In all of the years
since, I never have met any intelligent white man who would

194 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

try to insist that Jesus was white. How could they? He said,
*‘Jesus was brown.”’

I let him get away with that compromise.

Exactly as I had known it would, almost overnight the
Charlestown convicts, black and white, began buzzing with the
story. Wherever I went, I could feel the nodding. And anytime
I got a chance to exchange words with a black brother in stripes,
I’d say, ‘“My man! You ever heard about somebody named Mr.
Elijah Muhammad?’’

CHAPTER TWELVE
SAVIOR

During the spring of nineteen fifty-two I joyously wrote Elijah
Muhammad and my family that the Massachusetts State Parole
Board had voted that I should be released. But still a few months
were taken up with the red tape delay of paper work that went
back and forth, arranging for my parole release in the custody
of my oldest brother, Wilfred, in Detroit, who now managed a
furniture store. Wilfred got the Jew who owned the store to sign
a promise that upon release I would be given immediate em-
ployment.

By the prison system wire, I heard that Shorty also was up for
parole. But Shorty was having trovble getting some reputable
person to sign for him. (Later, I found out that in prison Shorty
had studied musical composition. He had even progressed to
writing some pieces; one of them I know he named ‘The Bas-
tille Concerto.’’)

My going to Detroit instead of back to Harlem or Boston was
influenced by my family’s feeling expressed in their letters. Es-
pecially my sister Hilda had stressed to me tnat although I felt I
understood Elijah Muhammad’s teachings. I had much to learn,
and I ought to come to Detroit and become a member of a temple
of practicing Muslims.

It was in August when they gave me a lecture, a cheap L’il
Abner suit, and a small amount of money, and I walked out of
the gate. I never looked back, but that doesn’t make me any
different from a million inmates who have left a prison behind
them.

The first stop I made was at a Turkish bath. I got some of that

195

196 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

physical feeling of prison-taint steamed off me. Ella, with whom
I stayed only overnight, had also agreed that it would be best
for me to start again in Detroit. The police in a new city wouldn’t
have it in for me; that was Ella’s consideration—not the Mus-
lims, for whom Ella had no use. Both Hilda and Reginald had
tried to work on Ella. But Ella, with her strong will, didn’t go
for it at all. She told me that she felt anyone could be whatever
he wanted to be, Holy Roller, Seventh Day Adventist, or what-
ever it was, but she wasn’t going to become any Muslim.

Hilda, the next moming, gave me some money to put in my
pocket. Before I left, I went out and bought three things I re-
member well. I bought a better-looking pair of eyeglasses than
the pair the prison had issued to me; and I bought a suitcase and
a wrist watch.

I have thought, since, that without fully knowing it, I was
preparing for what my life was about to become. Because those
are three things I’ve used more than anything else. My eye-
glasses correct the astigmatism that I got from all the reading in
prison. I travel so much now that my wife keeps alternate suit-
cases packed so that, when necessary, I can just grab one. And
you won’t find anybody more time-conscious than I am. I live
by my watch, keeping appointments. Even when I’m using my
car, I drive by my watch, not my speedometer. Time is more
important to me than distance.

I caught a bus to Detroit. The furniture store that my brother
Wulfred managed was right in the black ghetto of Detroit; I’d
better not name the store, if I’m going to tell the way they robbed
Negroes. Wilfred introduced me to the Jews who owned the
store. And, as agreed, I was put to work, as a salesman.

‘‘Nothing Down advertisements drew poor Negroes into that
store like flypaper. It was a shame, the way they paid three and
four times what the furniture had cost, because they could get
credit from those Jews. It was the same kind of cheap, gaudy-
looking junk that you can see in any of the black ghetto furniture
stores today. Fabrics were stapled on the sofas. Imitation ‘‘leop-
ard skin’’ bedspreads, ‘‘tiger skin’’ rugs, such stuff as that. I
would see clumsy, work-hardened, calloused hands scrawling
and scratching signatures on the contract, agreeing to highway-
robbery interest rates in the fine print that never was read.

I was seeing in real life the same point made in a joke that

SAVIOR 197

during the 1964 Presidential campaign Jet magazine reported
that Senator Barry Goldwater had told somewhere. It was that
a white man, a Negro, and a Jew were given one wish each. The
white man asked for securities; the Negro asked for a lot of
money; the Jew asked for some imitation jewelry ‘‘and that
colored boy’s address.’’

In all my years in the streets, I'd been looking at the exploi-
tation that for the first time I really saw and understood. Now I
watched brothers entwining themselves in the economic clutches
of the white man who went home every night with another bag
of the money drained out of the ghetto. I saw that the money,
instead of helping the black man, was going to help enrich these
white merchants, who usually lived in an ‘‘exclusive’’ area
where a black man had better not get caught unless he worked
there for somebody white.

Wilfred invited me to share his home, and gratefully I ac-
cepted. The warmth of a home and a family was a healing change
from the prison cage for me. It would deeply move almost any
newly freed convict, I think. But especially this Muslim home’s
atmosphere sent me often to my knees to praise Allah. My fami-
ly’s letters while I was in prison had included a description of
the Muslim home routine, but to truly appreciate it, one had to
be a part of the routine. Each act, and the significance of that
act, was gently, patiently explained to me by my brother Wilfred.

There was none of the moming confusion that exists in most
homes. Wilfred, the father, the family protector and provider,
was the first to rise. ““The father prepares the way for his fam-
ily,’’ he said. He, then I, performed the morning ablutions. Next
came Wilfred’s wife, Ruth, and then their children, so that or-
derliness prevailed in the use of the bathroom.

**In the name of Allah, I perform the ablution,’’ the Muslim
said aloud before washing first the night hand, then the left hand.
The teeth were thoroughly brushed, followed by three rinsings
of the mouth. The nostrils were also rinsed out thrice. A shower
then completed the whole body’s purification in readiness for
prayer.

Each family member, even children upon meeting each other
for that new day’s first time, greeted softly and pleasantly, ‘‘As-
Salaam-Alaikum’’ (the Arabic for ‘‘Peace be unto you’’). ‘‘Wa-
Alaikum-Salaam’’ (‘‘and unto you be peace’’) was the other’s

198 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

reply. Over and over again, the Muslim said in his own mind,
**Allahu-Akbar, Allahu-Akbar’’ (‘‘Allah is the greatest’’).

The prayer mug was spread by Wilfred while the rest of the
family purified themselves. It was explained to me that a Muslim
family prayed with the sun near the horizon. If that time was
missed, the prayer had to be deferred until the sun was beyond
the horizon. “‘Muslims are not sun-worshipers. We pray facing
the East to be in unity with the rest of our 725 million brothers
and sisters in the entire Muslim world.”’

All the family, in robes, lined up facing East. In unison, we
stepped from our slippers to stand on the prayer rug.

Today, I say with my family in the Arabic tongue the prayer
which I first learned in English: ‘‘I perform the moming prayer
to Allah, the Most High, Allah is the greatest. Glory to Thee
Oh Allah, Thine is the praise, Blessed is Thy Name, and Exalted
is Thy Majesty. I bear witness that nothing deserves to be served
or worshiped besides Thee.”’

No solid food, only juice and coffee, was taken for our break-
fasts. Wilfred and I went off to work. There, at noon and again
at around three in the afternoon, unnoticed by others in the fur-
niture store, we would rinse our hands, faces and mouths, and
softly meditate.

Muslim children did likewise at school, and Muslim wives
and mothers interrupted their chores to join the world’s 725
million Muslims in communicating with God.

Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays were the meeting days of
the relatively small Detroit Temple Number One. Near the tem-
ple, which actually was a storefront, were three hog-slaughtering
pens. The squealing of hogs being slaughtered filtered into our
Wednesday and Friday meetings. I’m describing the condition
that we Muslims were in back in the early 1950’s.

The address of Temple Number One was 1470 Frederick
Street, I think. The first Temple to be formed, back in 1931, by
Master W. D. Fard, was formed in Detroit, Michigan. I never
had seen any Christian-believing Negroes conduct themselves
like the Muslims, the individuals and the families alike. The
men were quietly, tastefully dressed. The women wore ankle-
length gowns, no makeup, and scarves covered their heads. The

SAVIOR 199

neat children were mannerly not only to adults but to other chil-
dren as well.

I had never dreamed of anything like that atmosphere among
black people who had learned to be proud they were black, who
had learned to love other black people instead of being jealous
and suspicious. I thrilled to how we Muslim men used both
hands to grasp a black brother’s both hands, voicing and smiling
our happiness to meet him again. The Muslim sisters, both mar-
ried and single, were given an honor and respect that I’d never
seen black men give to their women, and it felt wonderful to
me. The salutations which we all exchanged were warm, filled
with mutual respect and dignity: ‘‘Brother’’. . . ‘‘Sister’’. . .
‘‘Ma’am’’. . . ‘‘Sir.’’ Even children speaking to other children
used these terms. Beautiful!

Lemuel Hassan then was the Minister at Temple Number One.
‘*As-Salaikum,”’ he greeted us. ‘“Wa-Salaikum,’’ we retumed.
Minister Lemuel stood before us, near a blackboard. The black-
board had fixed upon it in permanent paint, on one side, the
United States flag and under it the words ‘‘Slavery, Suffering
and Death,’’ then the word ‘‘Christianity’’ alongside the sign of
the Cross. Beneath the Cross was a painting of a black man
hanged from a tree. On the other side was painted what we were
taught was the Muslim flag, the crescent and star on a red back-
ground with the words ‘‘Islam: Freedom, Justice, Equality,’’
and beneath that ‘‘Which One Will Survive the War of Arma-
geddon?”’

For more than an hour, Minister Lemuel lectured about Elijah
Muhammad’s teachings. I sat raptly absorbing Minister Lem-
uel’s every syllable and gesture. Frequently, he graphically il-
lustrated points by chalking key words or phrases on the
blackboard.

I thought it was outrageous that our small temple still had
some empty seats. I complained to my brother Wilfred that there
should be no empty seats, with the surrounding streets full of
our brainwashed black brothers and sisters, drinking, cursing,
fighting, dancing, carousing, and using dope—the very things
that Mr. Muhammad taught were helping the black man to stay
under the heel of the white man here in America.

From what I could gather, the recruitment attitude at the tem-
ple seemed to me to amount to a self-defeating waiting view

200 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

. . . an assumption that Allah would bring us more Muslims. I
felt that Allah would be more inclined to help those who helped
themselves. I had lived for years in ghetto streets; I knew the
Negroes in those streets. Harlem or Detroit were no different. I
said I disagreed, that I thought we should go out into the streets
and get more Muslims into the fold. All of my life, as you know,
I had been an activist, I had been impatient. My brother Wilfred
counseled me to keep patience. And for me to be patient was
made easier by the fact that I could anticipate soon seeing and
perhaps meeting the man who was called ‘‘The Messenger,”’
Elijah Muhammad himself.

Today, I have appointments with world-famous personages,
including some heads of nations. But I looked forward to the
Sunday before Labor Day in 1952 with an eagerness never since
duplicated. Detroit Temple Number One Muslims were going
in a motor caravan—I think about ten automobiles—to visit Chi-
cago Temple Number Two, to hear Elijah Muhammad.

Not since childhood had I been so excited as when we drove
in Wilfred’s car. At great Muslim rallies since then I have seen,
and heard, and felt ten thousand black people applauding and
cheering. But on that Sunday afternoon when our two little tem-
ples assembled, perhaps only two hundred Muslims, the Chi-
cagoans welcoming and greeting us Detroiters, I experienced
tinglings up my spine as I’ve never had since.

I was totally unprepared for the Messenger Elijah Muham-
mad’s physical impact upon my emotions. From the rear of
Temple Number Two, he came toward the platform. The small,
sensitive, gentle, brown face that I had studied in photographs,
until I had dreamed about it, was fixed straight ahead as the
Messenger strode, encircled by the marching, strapping Fruit of
Islam guards. The Messenger, compared to them, seemed frag-
ile, almost tiny. He and the Fruit of Islam were dressed in dark
suits, white shirts, and bow ties. The Messenger wore a gold-
embroidered fez.

I stared at the great man who had taken the time to wnite to
me when I was a convict whom he knew nothing about. He was
the man whom I had been told had spent years of his life in
suffering and sacrifice to lead us, the black people, because he
loved us so much. And then, hearing his voice, I sat leaning
forward, riveted upon his words. (I try to reconstruct what Elijah

SAVIOR 201

Muhammad said from having since heard him speak hundreds
of times.)

‘‘T have not stopped one day for the past twenty-one years. I
have been standing, preaching to you throughout those past
twenty-one years, while I was free, and even while I was in
bondage. I spent three and one-half years in the federal peniten-
tiary, and also over a year in the city jail for teaching this truth.
I was also deprived of a father’s love for his family for seven
long years while I was running from hypocrites and other ene-
mies of this word and revelation of God—which will give life
to you, and put you on the same level with all other civilized
and independent nations and peoples of this planet earth... .”’

Elijah Muhammad spoke of how in this wildemess of North
America, for centuries the ‘‘blue-eyed devil white man’’ had
brainwashed the “‘so-called Negro.’’ He told us how, as one
result, the black man in America was ‘‘mentally, morally and
spiritually dead.’’ Elijah Muhammad spoke of how the black
man was Original Man, who had been kidnapped from his
homeland and stripped of his language, his culture, his family
structure, his family name, until the black man in America did
not even realize who he was.

He told us, and showed us, how his teachings of the true
knowledge of ourselves would lift up the black man from the
bottom of the white man’s society and place the black man where
he had begun, at the top of civilization.

Concluding, pausing for breath, he called my name.

It was like an electrical shock. Not looking at me directly, he
asked me to stand.

He told them that I was just out of prison. He said how
‘“strong’’ I had been while in prison. “‘Every day,’’ he said,
‘*for years, Brother Malcolm has written a letter from prison to
me. And I have written to him as often as I could.’’

Standing there, feeling the eyes of the two hundred Muslims
upon me, I heard him make a parable about me.

When God bragged about how faithful Job was, said Elijah
Muhammad, the devil said only God’s hedge around Job kept
Job so faithful. ‘‘Remove that protective hedge,’’ the devil told
God, ‘‘and I will make Job curse you to your face.”’

The devil could claim that, hedged in prison, I had just used
Islam, Mr. Muhammad said. But the devil would say that now,

202 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

out of prison, I would retum to my drinking, smoking, dope,
and life of crime.

“Well, now, our good brother Malcolm’s hedge is removed
and we will see how he does,’’ Mr. Muhammad said. ‘‘I believe
that he is going to remain faithful.’’

And Allah blessed me to remain true, firm and strong in my
faith in Islam, despite many severe trials to my faith. And even
when events produced a crisis between Elijah Muhammad and
me, I told him at the beginning of the crisis, with all the sincerity
I had in me, that I still believed in him more strongly than he
believed in himself.

Mr. Muhammad and J are not together today only because of
envy and jealousy. I had more faith in Elijah Muhammad than
I could ever have in any other man upon this earth.

You will remember my having said that, when I was in prison,
Mr. Muhammad would be my brother Wilfred’s house guest
whenever he visited Detroit Temple Number One. Every Mus-
lim said that never could you do as much for Mr. Muhammad
as he would do for you in retum. That Sunday, after the meeting,
he invited our entire family group and Minister Lemuel Hassan
to be his guests for dinner that evening, at his new home.

Mr. Muhammad said that his children and his followers had
insisted that he move into this larger, better eighteen-room house
in Chicago at 4847 Woodlawn Avenue. They had just moved in
that week, I believe. When we arrived, Mr. Muhammad showed
us where he had just been painting. I had to restrain my impulse
to run and bring a chair for the Messenger of Allah. Instead, as I
had heard he would do, he was worrying about my comfort.

We had hoped to hear his wisdom during the dinner, but in-
stead he encouraged us to talk. I sat thinking of how our Detroit
Temple more or less just sat and awaited Allah to bring con-
verts—and, beyond that, of the millions of black people all over
America, who never had heard of the teachings that could stir
and wake and resurrect the black man... and there at Mr.
Muhammad’s table, I found my tongue. I have always been one
to speak my mind.

During a conversational lull, I asked Mr. Muhammad how
many Muslims were supposed to be in our Temple Number One
in Detroit.

He said, ““There are supposed to be thousands.’’

SAVIOR 203

‘*Yes, sir,’’ I said. ‘‘Sir, what is your opinion of the best way
of getting thousands there?’’

‘‘Go after the young people,’’ he said. “‘Once you get them,
the older ones will follow through shame.”’

J made up my mind that we were going to follow that advice.

Back in Detroit, I talked with my brother Wilfred. I offered
my services to our Temple’s Minister, Lemuel Hassan. He
shared my determination that we should apply Mr. Muham-
mad’s formula in a recruitment drive. Beginning that day, every
evening, straight from work at the furniture store, I went doing
what we Muslims later came to call ‘‘fishing.’’ I knew the think-
ing and the language of ghetto streets: ‘‘My man, let me pull
your coat to something—’’

My application had, of course, been made and during this
time I received from Chicago my ‘‘X.’’ The Muslim’s ‘‘X’’
symbolized the true African family name that he never could
know. For me, my ‘‘X’’ replaced the white slavemaster name
of ‘‘Little’’ which some blue-eyed devil named Little had im-
posed upon my paternal forebears. The receipt of my ‘‘X’’ meant
that forever after in the nation of Islam, I would be known as
Malcolm X. Mr. Muhammad taught that we would keep this
**X’’ until God Himself returned and gave us a Holy Name from
His own mouth.

Recruit as I would in the Detroit ghetto bars, in the pool-
rooms, and on the comers, I found my poor, ignorant, brain-
washed black brothers mostly too deaf, dumb, and blind,
mentally, morally, and spiritually, to respond. It angered me
that only now and then would one display even a little curiosity
about the teachings that would resurrect the black man.

These few I would almost beg to visit Temple Number One
at our next meeting. But then not half of those who agreed to
come would actually show up.

Gradually, enough were made interested, though, that each
month, a few more automobiles lengthened our caravans to
Temple Two in Chicago. But even after seeing and hearing Eli-
jah Muhammad in person, only a few of the interested visitors
would apply by formal letter to Mr. Muhammad to be accepted
for Nation of Islam membership.

With a few months of plugging away, however, our storefront
Temple One about tripled its membership. And that so deeply

204 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

pleased Mr. Muhammad that he paid us the honor of a personal
visit.

Mr. Muhammad gave me warm praise when Minister Lemuel
Hassan told how hard I had labored in the cause of Islam.

Our caravans grew. I remember with what pride we led
twenty-five automobiles to Chicago. And each time we went,
we were honored with dinner at the home of Elijah Muhammad.
He was interested in my potential, I could tell from things he
would say.

And I worshiped him.

In early 1953, I left the furniture store. I earned a little better
weekly pay check working at the Gar Wood factory in Detroit,
where big garbage truck bodies were made. I cleaned up behind
the welders each time they finished another truck body.

Mr. Muhammad was saying at his dining table by this time
that one of his worst needs was more young men willing to work
as hard as they would have to in order to bear the responsibilities
of his ministers. He was saying that the teachings should be
spreading further than they had, and temples needed to be es-
tablished in other cities.

It simply had never occurred to me that / might be a minister.
I had never felt remotely qualified to directly represent Mr. Mu-
hammad. If someone had asked me about becoming a minister,
I would have been astonished, and told them I was happy and
willing to serve Mr. Muhammad in the lowliest capacity.

I don’t know if Mr. Muhammad suggested it or if our Temple
One Minister Lemuel Hassan on his own decision encouraged
me to address our assembled brothers and sisters. I know that I
testified to what Mr. Muhammad’s teachings had done for me:
“If I told you the life I have lived, you would find it hard to
believe me. . . . When [ say something about the white man, I
am not talking about someone I don’t know. .. .”’

Soon after that, Minister Lemuel Hassan urged me to address
the brothers and sisters with an extemporaneous lecture. I was
uncertain, and hesitant—but at least I had debated in prison, and
I tried my best. (Of course, I can’t remember exactly what I
said, but I do know that in my beginning efforts my favorite
subject was Christianity and the horrors of slavery, where I felt
well-equipped from so much reading in prison.)

“*My brothers and sisters, our white slavemaster’s Christian

SAVIOR 205

religion has taught us black people here in the wilderness of
North America that we will sprout wings when we die and fly
up into the sky where God will have for us a special place called
heaven. This is white man’s Christian religion used to brain-
wash us black people! We have accepted it! We have embraced
it! We have believed it! We have practiced it! And while we are
doing all of that, for himself, this blue-eyed devil has twisted

his Christianity, to keep his foot on our backs . . . to keep our
eyes fixed on the pie in the sky and heaven in the hereafter. . .
while he enjoys his heaven right here . . . on this earth. . . in
this life.’’

Today when thousands of Muslims and others have been au-
diences out before me, when audiences of millions have been
beyond radio and television microphones, I’m sure I rarely feel
as much electricity as was then generated in me by the uptumed
faces of those seventy-five or a hundred Muslims, plus other cu-
rious visitors, sitting there in our storefront temple with the squeal-
ing of pigs filtering in from the slaughterhouse just outside.

In the summer of 1953—all praise is due to Allah—I was
named Detroit Temple Number One’s Assistant Minister.

Every day after work, I walked, ‘‘fishing’’ for potential con-
verts in the Detroit black ghetto. 1 saw the African features of
my black brothers and sisters whom the devilish white man had
brainwashed. I saw the hair as mine had been for years, conked
by cooking it with lye until it lay limp, looking straight like the
white man’s hair. Time and again Mr. Muhammad’s teachings
were rebuffed and even ridiculed. . . . ‘“‘Aw, man, get out of
my face, you niggers are crazy!’’ My head would reel some-
times, with mingled anger and pity for my poor blind black
brothers. I couldn’t wait for the next time our Minister Lemuel
Hassan would let me speak:

“We didn’t land on Plymouth Rock, my brothers and sis-
ters—Plymouth Rock landed on us!’ . . . ‘*Give all you can to
help Messenger Elijah Muhammad’s independence program for
the black man! . . . This white man always has controlled us
black people by keeping us running to him begging, ‘Please,
lawdy, please, Mr. White Man, boss, would you push me off
another crumb down from your table that’s sagging with
riches... .’ .

‘*. . . my beautiful, black brothers and sisters! And when we

206 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

say ‘black,’ we mean everything not white, brothers and sisters!
Because look at your skins! We’re all black to the white man,
but we’re a thousand and one different colors. Turn around, look
at each other! What shade of black African polluted by devil
white man are you? You see me—well, in the streets they used
to call me Detroit Red. Yes! Yes, that raping, red-headed devil
was my grandfather! That close, yes! My mother’s father! She
didn’t like to speak of it, can you blame her? She said she never
laid eyes on him! She was glad for that! I’m glad for her! If I
could drain away his blood that pollutes my body, and pollutes
my complexion, I’d do it! Because I hate every drop of the
rapist’s blood that’s in me!

‘‘And it’s not just me, it’s all of us! During slavery, think of
it, it was a rare one of our black grandmothers, our great-
grandmothers and our great-great-grandmothers who escaped the
white rapist slavemaster. That rapist slavemaster who emascu-
lated the black man. . . with threats, with fear. . . until even
today the black man lives with fear of the white man in his heart!
Lives even today still under the heel of the white man!

** Think of it—think of that black slave man filled with fear
and dread, hearing the screams of his wife, his mother, his
daughter being taken—in the bam, the kitchen, in the bushes!
Think of it, my dear brothers and sisters! Think of hearing wives,
mothers, daughters, being raped! And you were too filled with
fear of the rapist to do anything about it! And his vicious, animal
attacks’ offspring, this white man named things like ‘mulatto’
and ‘quadroon’ and ‘octoroon’ and all those other things that he
has called us—you and me—when he is not calling us ‘nigger’!

**Tur around and look at each other, brothers and sisters,
and think of this! You and me, polluted all these colors—and
this devil has the arrogance and the gall to think we, his victims,
should love him!”’

I would become so choked up that sometimes I would walk
in the streets until late into the night. Sometimes I would speak
to no one for hours, thinking to myself about what the white
man had done to our poor people here in America.

At the Gar Wood factory where I worked, one day the super-
visor came, looking nervous. He said that a man in the office
was waiting to see me.

SAVIOR 207

The white man standing in there said, ‘‘I’m from the F.B.I.”’
He flipped open—that way they do, to shock you—his little
folded black leather case containing his identification. He told
me to come with him. He didn’t say for what, or why.

I went with him. They wanted to know, at their office, why
hadn’t I registered for the Korean War draft?

‘‘T just got out of prison,’’ I said. ‘‘I didn’t know you took
anybody with prison records.”’

They really believed I thought ex-convicts weren’t supposed
to register. They asked a lot of questions. I was glad they didn’t
ask if I intended to put on the white man’s uniform, because I
didn’t. They just took it for granted that I would. They told me
they weren’t going to send me to jail for failing to register, that
they were going to give me a break, but that I would have to
register immediately.

So I went straight from there to the draft board. When they
gave me a form to fill out, I wrote in the appropriate places that
I was a Muslim, and that I was a conscientious objector.

I turned in the form. This middle-aged, bored-acting devil
who scanned it looked out from under his eyes at me. He got
up and went into another office, obviously to consult someone
over him. After a while, he came out and motioned for me to
go in there.

These three—I believe there were three, as I rrmember—older
devils sat behind desks. They all wore that ‘‘troublesome nig-
ger’’ expression. And I looked ‘‘white devil’’ right back into
their eyes. They asked me on what basis did I claim to be a
Muslim in my religion. I told them that the Messenger of Allah
was Mr. Elijah Muhammad, and that all who followed Mr. Mu-
hammad here in America were Muslims. I knew they had heard
this before from some Temple One young brothers who had
been there before me.

They asked if I knew what ‘‘conscientious objector’’ meant.
I told them that when the white man asked me to go off some-
where and fight and maybe die to preserve the way the white
man treated the black man in America, then my conscience made
me object.

They told me that my case would be ‘‘pending.’’ But I was
put through the physical anyway, and they sent me a card with
some kind of a classification. That was 1953, then I heard no more

208 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

for seven years, when I received another classification card in
the mail. In fact, I carry it in my wallet nght now. Here: it’s
card number 20 219 25 1377, it’s dated November 21, 1960. It
says, ‘‘Class 5-A,’’ whatever that means, and stamped on the
card’s back is ‘‘Michigan Local Board No. 19, Wayne County,
3604 South Wayne Road, Wayne, Michigan.’’

Every time I spoke at our Temple One, my voice would still
be hoarse from the last time. My throat took a long time to get
into condition.

‘*Do you know why the white man really hates you? It’s be-
cause every time he sees your face, he sees a mirror of his
crime—and his guilty conscience can’t bear to face it!

‘*‘Every white man in America, when he looks into a black
man’s eyes, should fall to his knees and say ‘I’m sorry, I’m
sorry—my kind has committed history’s greatest crime against
your kind; will you give me the chance to atone?’ But do you
brothers and sisters expect any white man to do that? No, you
know better! And why won’t he do it? Because he can’t do it.
The white man has created a devil, to bring chaos upon this
earth... .’’

Somewhere about this time, I left the Gar Wood factory and
I went to work for the Ford Motor Company, one of the Lincoln-
Mercury Division assembly lines.

As a young minister, I would go to Chicago and see Mr.
Elijah Muhammad every time I could get off. He encouraged
me to come when I could. I was treated as if I had been one of
the sons of Mr. Muhammad and his dark, good wife Sister Clara
Muhammad. I saw their children only occasionally. Most of
them in those years worked around Chicago in various jobs,
laborers, driving taxis, and things such as that. Also living in
the home was Mr. Muhammad’s dear Mother Marie.

I would spend almost as much time with Mother Marie as I
did with Mr. Muhammad. I loved to hear her reminiscences
about her son Elijah’s early life when they lived in Sandersville,
Georgia, where he was born in 1897.

Mr. Muhammad would talk with me for hours. After eating
good, healthful Muslim food, we would stay at the dinner table
and talk. Or I would ride with him as he drove on his daily
rounds between the few grocery stores that the Muslims then

SAVIOR 209

owned in Chicago. The stores were examples to help black peo-
ple see what they could do for themselves by hiring their own
kind and trading with their own kind and thus quit being ex-
ploited by the white man.

In the Muslim-owned combination grocery-drug store on
Wentworth and 31st Street, Mr. Muhammad would sweep the
floor or something like that. He would do such work himself as
an example to his followers whom he taught that idleness and
laziness were among the black man’s greatest sins against himself.
I would want to snatch the broom from Mr. Muhammad’s hand,
because I thought he was too valuable to be sweeping a floor. But
he wouldn’t let me do anything but stay with him and listen while
he advised me on the best ways to spread his message.

The way we were with each other, it would make me think
of Socrates on the steps of the Athens market place, spreading
his wisdom to his students. Or how one of those students, Ar-
istotle, had his students following behind him, walking through
the Lyceum.

One day, I remember, a dirty glass of water was on a counter
and Mr. Muhammad put a clean glass of water beside it. ‘“You
want to know how to spread my teachings?’’ he said, and he
pointed to the glasses of water. ‘“Don’t condemn if you see a
person has a dirty glass of water,’’ he said, ‘“‘just show them the
clean glass of water that you have. When they inspect it, you
won’t have to say that yours is better.’’

Of all the things that Mr. Muhammad ever was to teach me,
I don’t know why, that still stands out in my mind. Although I
haven’t always practiced it. I love too much to battle. I’m in-
clined to tell somebody if his glass of water is dirty.

Mother Marie, when Mr. Muhammad was busy, would tell
me about her son’s boyhood and of his growing up in Georgia
to young manhood.

Mother Marie’s account of her son began when she was her-
self but seven years old. She told me that then she had a vision
that one day she would be the mother of a very great man. She
married a Baptist minister, Reverend Poole, who worked around
Sandersville on the farms, and in the sawmills. Among their
thirteen children, said Mother Marie, little Elijah was very dif-
ferent, almost from when he could walk and talk.

The small, frail boy usually settled his older brothers’ and

210 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

sisters’ disputes, Mother Marie said. And young as he was, he
became regarded by them as their leader. And Elijah, about the
time he entered school, began displaying a strong race con-
sciousness. After the fourth grade, because the family was so
poor, Elijah had to quit school and begin full-time working. An
older sister taught Elijah as much as she was able at night.

Mother Marnie said that Elijah spent hours poring through the
Bible, with tears shining in his eyes. (Mr. Muhammad told me
himself later that as a boy he felt that the Bible’s words were a
locked door, that could be unlocked, if only he knew how, and
he cried because of his frustrated anxiety to receive understand-
ing.) Elijah grew up into a still-frail teenager who displayed a
most uncommonly strong love for his race, and, Mother Marie
said, instead of condemning Negroes’ faults, young Elijah al-
ways would speak of reasons for those faults.

Mother Marie has since died. I believe that she had as large a
funeral as Chicago has seen. Not only Muslims, but others knew
of the deep bond that Messenger Elijah had with his mother.

‘Tam not ashamed to say how little learning I have had,”’
Mr. Muhammad told me. ‘‘My going to school no further than
the fourth grade proves that I can know nothing except the truth
I have been taught by Allah. Allah taught me mathematics. He
found me with a sluggish tongue, and taught me how to pro-
nounce words.”’

Mr. Muhammad said that somehow, he never could stand how
the Sandersville white farmers, the sawmill foremen, or other
white employers would habitually and often curse Negro workers.
He said he would politely ask any for whom he worked never to
curse him. ‘*I would ask them to just fire me if they didn’t like
my work, but just don’t curse me.’” (Mr. Muhammad’s ordinary
conversation was the manner he used when making speeches. He
was not ‘‘eloquent,’’ as eloquence is usually meant, but whatever
he uttered had an impact on me that trained orators did not begin
to have.) He said that on the jobs he got, he worked so honestly
that generally he was put in charge of the other Negroes.

After Mr. Muhammad and Sister Clara met and married and
their first two children had been born, a white employer early in
1923 did curse Mr. Muhammad, then Elijah Poole. Elijah Poole,
determined to avoid trouble, took his family to Detroit, arriving

SAVIOR 2\1

when he was twenty-five. Five more children would be bor
there in Detroit, and, finally, the last one in Chicago.

In Detroit in 1931, Mr. Muhammad met Master W. D. Fard.

The effects of the depression were bad everywhere, but in the
black ghetto they were horrible, Mr. Muhammad told me. A
small, light brown-skinned man knocked from door to door at
the apartments of the poverty-stricken Negroes. The man offered
for sale silks and other yard goods, and he identified himself as
‘a brother from the East.”’

This man began to tell Negroes how they came from a distant
land, in the seeds of their forefathers.

He warned them against eating the “‘filthy pig’’ and other
‘wrong foods’’ that it was habitual for Negroes to eat.

Among the Negroes whom he found most receptive, he began
holding little meetings in their poor homes. The man taught both
the Quran and the Bible, and his students included Elijah Poole.

This man said his name was W. D. Fard. He said that he was
born in the Koreish tribe of Muhammad ibn Abdullah, the Ara-
bian prophet Himself. This peddler of silks and yard goods, Mr.
W. D. Fard, knew the Bible better than any of the Christian-
bred Negroes.

In the essence, Mr. W. D. Fard taught that God’s true name
was Allah, that His true religion was Islam, that the true name
for that religion’s people was Muslims.

Mr. W. D. Fard taught that the Negroes in America were
directly descended from Muslims. He taught that Negroes in
America were Lost Sheep, lost for four hundred years from the
Nation of Islam, and that he, Mr. Fard, had come to redeem
and return the Negro to his true religion.

No heaven was in the sky, Mr. Fard taught, and no hell was
in the ground. Instead, both heaven and hell were conditions in
which people lived nght here on this planet Earth. Mr. Fard
taught that the Negro in America had been for four hundred
years in hell, and he, Mr. Fard, had come to return them to
where heaven for them was—back home, among their own kind.

Master Fard taught that as hell was on earth, also on earth
was the devil—the white race which was bred from black Orig-
inal Man six thousand years before, purposely to create a hell
on earth for the next six thousand years.

The black people, God’s children, were Gods themselves,

212 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Master Fard taught. And he taught that among them was one,
also a human being like the others, who was the God of Gods:
The Most, Most High, The Supreme Being, supreme in wisdom
and power—and His proper name was Allah.

Among his handful of first converts in 1931 in Detroit, Master
W. D. Fard taught that every religion says that near the Last
Day, or near the End of Time, God would come, to resurrect
the Lost Sheep, tu separate them from their enemies, and restore
them to their own people. Master Fard taught that Prophecy
referred to this Finder and Savior of the Lost Sheep as The Son
of Man, or God in Person, or The Lifegiver, The Redeemer, or
The Messiah, who would come as lightning from the East and
appear in the West.

He was the One to whom the Jews referred as The Messiah,
the Christians as The Christ, and the Muslims as The Mahdi.

I would sit, galvanized, hearing what I then accepted from
Mr. Muhammad’s own mouth as being the tme history of our
religion, the true religion for the black man. Mr. Muhammad
told me that one evening he had a revelation that Master W. D.
Fard represented the fulfillment of the prophecy.

‘*T asked Him,’’ said Mr. Muhammad, ‘‘ ‘Who are you, and
what is your real name?’ And He said, “I am The One the world
has been looking for to come for the past two thousand years.’

‘*T said to Him again,’’ said Mr. Muhammad, *‘ ‘What is
your true name?’ And then He said, ‘My name is Mahdi. I came
to guide you into the nght path.’ ”’

Mr. Elijah Muhammad says that he sat listening with an open
heart and an open mind—the way I was sitting listening to Mr.
Muhammad. And Mr. Muhammad said he never doubted any
word that the ‘‘Savior’’ taught him.

Starting to organize, Master W. D. Fard set up a class for
training ministers to carry the teachings to America’s black peo-
ple. In giving names to these first ministers, Master Fard named
Elijah Poole ‘‘Elijah Karriem.”’

Next, Master W. D. Fard established in 1931 in Detroit a
University of Islam. It had adult classes which taught, among
other things, mathematics, to help the poor Negroes quit being
duped and deceived by the ‘‘tricknology’’ of ‘‘the blue-eyed
devil white man.’’

SAVIOR 213

Starting a school in the rough meant that it lacked qualified
teachers, but a start had to be made somewhere. Mr. Elyah
Karriem removed his own children from Detroit public schools,
to start a nucleus of children in the University of Islam.

Mr. Muhammad told me that his older children’s lack of for-
mal education reflected their sacrifice to form the backbone for
today’s Universities of Islam in Detroit and Chicago which have
better-qualified faculties.

Master W. D. Fard selected Elijah Karriem to be the Supreme
Minister, over all other ministers, and among all of those others
sprang up a bitter jealousy. All of them had better education
than Elijah Karriem, and also they were more articulate than he
was. They raged, even in his presence, ‘‘Why should we bow
down to someone who appears less qualified?’

But Mr. Elijah Karriem was then in some way re-named **Eli-
jah Muhammad,”’ who as the Supreme Minister began to re-
ceive from Master W. D. Fard for the next three and a half years
private teachings, during which time he says he ‘‘heard things
never revealed to others.’”’

During this period, Mr. Elijah Muhammad and Master W. D.
Fard went to Chicago and established Temple Number Two.
They also established in Milwaukee the beginnings of a Temple
Number Three.

In 1934, Master W. D. Fard disappeared, without a trace.

Elijah Muhammad says that attempts were made upon his life,
because the other ministers’ jealousy had reached such a pitch. He
says that these ‘‘hypocrites’’ forced him to flee to Chicago.
Temple Number Two became his headquarters until the ““hyp-
ocrites’’ pursued him there, forcing him to flee again. In Wash-
ington, D.C., he began Temple Number Four. Also while there,
in the Congressional Libiary, he studied books which he says
Master W. D. Fard had told him contained different pieces of
the truth that devil white man had recorded, but which were not
in books generally available to the public.

Saying that he was still pursued by the ‘‘hypocrites,’’ Mr.
Muhammad fled from city to city, never staying long in any.
Whenever able, now and then, he slipped home to see his wife
and his eight young children, who were fed by other poor Mus-
lims who shared what little they had. Even Mr. Muhammad’s

214 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

original Chicago followers wouldn’t know he was at home, for
he says the “‘hypocrites’’ made serious efforts to kill him.

In 1942, Mr. Muhammad was arrested. He says Uncle Tom
Negroes had tipped off the devil white man to his teachings, and
he was charged by this devil white man with draft-dodging,
although he was too old for military service. He was sentenced
to five years in prison. In the Milan, Michigan, federal prison,
Mr. Muhammad served three and a half years, then he was
paroled. He had returned to his work in 1946, to remove the
blinders from the eyes of the black man in the wilderness of
North America.

I can hear myself now, at the lectern in our little Muslim
Temple, passionately addressing my black brothers and sisters:

“This little, gentle, sweet man! The Honorable Elijah Mu-
hammad who is at this very hour teaching our brothers and
sisters over there in Chicago! Allah’s Messenger—which makes
him the most powerful black man in America! For you and me,
he has sacrificed seven years on the run from filthy hypocrites,
he spent another three and a half years in a prison cage! He
was put there by the devil white man! That devil white man does
not want the Honorable Elijah Muhammad stirring awake the
sleeping giant of you and me, and all of our ignorant, brain-
washed kind here in the white man’s heaven and the black man’s
hell here in the wilderness of North America!

“‘T have sat at our Messenger’s feet, hearing the truth from
his own mouth! I have pledged on my knees to Allah to tell the
white man about his crimes and the black man the true teachings
of our Honorable Elijah Muhammad. I don't care if it costs my
life... .”’

This was my attitude. These were my uncompromising words,
uttered anywhere, without hesitation or fear. I was his most
faithful servant, and I know today that I did believe in him more
firmly than he believed in himself.

In the years to come, I was going to have to face a psycho-
logical and spiritual crisis.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MINISTER MALCOLM X

J quit the Ford Motor Company’s Lincoln-Mercury Division. It
had become clear to me that Mr. Muhammad needed ministers
to spread his teachings, to establish more temples among the
twenty-two million black brothers who were brainwashed and
sleeping in the cities of North America.

My decision came relatively quickly. I have always been an
activist, and my personal chemistry perhaps made me reach more
quickly than most ministers in the Nation of Islam that stage of
dedication. But every minister in the Nation, in his own time,
in his own way, in the privacy of his own soul, came to the
conviction that it was written that all of his ‘‘before’’ life had
been only conditioning and preparation to become a disciple of
Mr. Muhammad’s.

Everything that happens—Islam teaches—is written.

Mr. Muhammad invited me to visit his home in Chicago, as
often as possible, while he trained me, for months.

Never in prison had I studied and absorbed so intensely as I
did now under Mr. Muhammad’s guidance. I was immersed in
the worship rituals; in what he taught us were the true natures
of men and women; the organizational and administrative pro-
cedures; the real meanings, and the interrelated meanings, and
uses, of the Bible and the Quran.

I went to bed every night ever more awed. If not Allah, who
else could have put such wisdom into that little humble lamb of
a man from the Georgia fourth grade and sawmills and cotton
patches. The “‘lamb of a man’’ analogy I drew for myself from
the prophecy in the Book of Revelations of a symbolic lamb

215

216 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

with a two-edged sword in its mouth. Mr. Muhammad’s two-
edged sword was his teachings, which cut back and forth to free
the black man’s mind from the white man.

My adoration of Mr. Muhammad grew, in the sense of the
Latin root word adorare. It means much more than our ‘‘ado-
ration’ or ‘‘adore.’’ It means that my worship of him was so
awesome that he was the first man whom I had ever feared—not
fear such as of a man with a gun, but the fear such as one has
of the power of the sun. _

Mr. Muhammad, when he felt me able, permitted me to go
to Boston. Brother Lloyd X lived there. He invited people whom
he had gotten interested in Islam to hear me in his living room.

I quote what I said when I was just starting out, and then later
on in other places, as I can best remember the general pattern
that I used, in successive phases, in those days. I know that then
I always liked to start off with my favorite analogy of Mr. Mu-
hammad.

‘‘God has given Mr. Muhammad some sharp truth,”’ I told
them. ‘‘It is like a two-edged sword. It cuts into you. It causes
you great pain, but if you can take the truth, it will cure you and
save you from what otherwise would be certain death.’”’

Then I wouldn’t waste any time to start opening their eyes
about the devil white man. ‘‘I know you don’t realize the enor-
mity, the horrors, of the so-called Christian white man’s
crime. ...

*‘Not even in the Bible is there such a crime! God in His
wrath struck down with fire the perpetrators of lesser crimes!
One hundred million of us black people! Your grandparents!
Mine! Murdered by this white man. To get fifteen million of us
here to make us his slaves, on the way he murdered one hundred
millton! I wish it was possible for me to show you the sea bottom
in those days—the black bodies, the blood, the bones broken by
boots and clubs! The pregnant black women who were thrown
overboard if they got too sick! Thrown overboard to the sharks
that had learned that following these slave ships was the way to
grow fat!

““Why, the white man’s raping of the black race’s woman
began right on those slave ships! The blue-eyed devil could not
even wait until he got them here! Why, brothers and sisters,

MINISTER MALCOLM X_ 217

civilized mankind has never known such an orgy of greed and
lust and murder... .”’

The dramatization of slavery never failed intensely to arouse
Negroes hearing its horrors spelled out for the first time. It’s
unbelievable how many black men and women have let the white
man fool them into holding an almost romantic idea of what
slave days were like. And once I had them fired up with slavery,
I would shift the scene to themselves.

‘‘T want you, when you leave this room, to start to see all this
whenever you see this devil white man. Oh, yes, he’s a devil! I
just want you to start watching him, in his places where he
doesn’t want you around; watch him reveling in his precious-
ness, and his exclusiveness, and his vanity, while he continues
to subjugate you and me.

‘*Every time you see a white man, think about the devil you’ re
seeing! Think of how it was on your slave foreparents’ bloody,
sweaty backs that he built this empire that’s today the richest of
all nations—where his evil and his greed cause him to be hated
around the world!’’

Every meeting, the people who had been there before re-
turned, bringing friends. None of them ever had heard the wraps
taken off the white man. I can’t remember any black man ever
in those living-room audiences in Brother Lloyd X’s home at
5 Wellington Street who didn’t stand up immediately when I
asked after each lecture, ‘‘Will all stand who believe what you
have heard?’’ And each Sunday night, some of them stood,
while I could see others not quite ready, when I asked, ‘‘How
many of you want to follow The Honorable Elijah Muham-
mad?’’

Enough had stood up after about three months that we were
able to open a little temple. I remember with what pleasure we
rented some folding chairs. I was beside myself with joy when
I could report to Mr. Muhammad a new temple address.

It was when we got this little mosque that my sister Ella first
began to come to hear me. She sat, staring, as though she
couldn’t believe it was me. Ella never moved, even when I had
only asked all who believed what they had heard to stand up.
She contributed when our collection was held. It didn’t bother
or challenge me at all about Ella. I never even thought about
converting her, as toughminded and cautious about joining any-

218 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

thing as I personally knew her to be. I wouldn’t have expected
anyone short of Allah Himself to have been able to convert Ella.

I would close the meeting as Mr. Muhammad had taught me:
‘‘In the name of Allah, the beneficent, the merciful, all praise
is due to Allah, the Lord of all the worlds, the beneficent, mer-
ciful master of the day of judgment in which we now live—Thee
alone do we serve, and Thee alone do we beseech for Thine aid.
Guide us on the right path, the path of those upon whom Thou
has bestowed favors—not of those upon whom Thy wrath is
brought down, nor the path of those who go astray after they
have heard Thy teaching. I bear witness that there is no God but
Thee and The Honorable Elijah Muhammad is Thy Servant and
Apostle.’’ I believed he had been divinely sent to our people by
Allah Himself.

I would raise my hand, for them to be dismissed: ‘‘Do nothing
unto anyone that you would not like to have done unto yourself.
Seek peace, and never be the aggressor—but if anyone attacks
you, we do not teach you to turn the other cheek. May Allah
bless you to be successful and victorious in all that you do.’”’

Except for that one day when I had stayed with Ella on the
way to Detroit after prison, I had not been in the old Roxbury
streets for seven years. I went to have a reunion with Shorty.

Shorty, when I found him, acted uncertain. The wire had told
him I was in town, and on some ‘“‘religious kick.’* He didn’t
know if I was serious, or if I was another of the hustling preacher-
pimps to be found in every black ghetto, the ones with some
little storefront churches of mostly hardworking, older women,
who kept their “‘pretty boy’’ young preacher dressed in ‘‘sharp’”’
clothes and driving a fancy car. I quickly let Shorty know how
serious I was with Islam, but then, talking the old street talk, I
quickly put him at his ease, and we had a great reunion. We
laughed until we cried at Shorty’s dramatization of his reactions
when he heard that judge keep saying ‘‘Count one, ten years

. . count two, ten years—’’ We talked about how having those
white girls with us had gotten us ten years where we had seen
in prison plenty of worse offenders with far less time to serve.

Shorty still had a little band, and he was doing fairly well. He
was rightfully very proud that in prison he had studied music. I
told him enough about Islam to see from his reactions that he
didn’t really want to hear it. In prison, he had misheard about

MINISTER MALCOLM X_ 219

our religion. He got me off the subject by making a joke. He
said that he hadn’t had enough pork chops and white women. I
don’t know if he has yet, or not. I know that he’s married to a
white woman now . . . and he’s fat as a hog from eating hog.

I also saw John Hughes, the gambling-house owner, and some
others I had known who were still around Roxbury. The wire
about me had made them all uncomfortable, but my ‘“What you
know, Daddy?’’ approach at least enabled us to have some con-
versations. I never mentioned Islam to most of them. I knew,
from what I had been when I was with them, how brainwashed
they were.

As Temple Eleven’s minister, I served only briefly, because
as soon as I got it organized, by March 1954, I left it in charge
of Minister Ulysses X, and the Messenger moved me on to
Philadelphia.

The City of Brotherly Love black people reacted even faster
to the truth about the white man than the Bostonians had. And
Philadelphia’s Temple Twelve was established by the end of
May. It had taken a little under three months.

The next month, because of those Boston and Philadelphia
successes, Mr. Muhammad appointed me to be the minister of
Temple Seven—in vital New York City.

I can’t start to describe for you my welter of emotions. For
Mr. Muhammad’s teachings really to resurrect American black
people, Islam obviously had to grow, to grow very big. And
nowhere in America was such a single temple potential available
as in New York’s five boroughs.

They contained over a million black people.

It was nine years since West Indian Archie and I had been
stalking the streets, momentarily expecting to try and shoot each
other down like dogs.

“‘Red!’’. . . °‘My man!’’. . . “‘Red, this can’t be you—”’

With my natural kinky red hair now close-cropped, in place
of the old long-haired, lye-cooked conk they had always known
on my head, I know I looked much different.

‘‘Gim’me some skin, man! A drink here, bartender—what?
You quit! Aw, man, come off it!’’

It was so good seeing so many whom I had known so well.
You can understand how that was. But it was West Indian Ar-

220 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

chie and Sammy the Pimp for whom I was primarily looking.
And the first nasty shock came quickly, about Sammy. He had
quit pimping, he had gotten pretty high up in the numbers busi-
ness, and was doing well. Sammy even had married. Some fast
young girl. But then shortly after his wedding one morning he
was found lying dead across his bed—they said with twenty-five
thousand dollars in his pockets. (People don’t want to believe
the sums that even the minor underworld handles. Why, listen:
in March 1964, a Chicago nickel-and-dime bets Wheel of For-
tune man, Lawrence Wakefield, died, and over $760,000 in
cash was in his apartment, in sacks and bags. . . all taken from
poor Negroes . . . and we wonder why we Stay so poor.)

Sick about Sammy, I queried from bar to bar among old-
timers for West Indian Archie. The wire hadn’t reported him
dead, or living somewhere else, but none seemed to know where
he was. I heard the usual hustler fates of so many others. Bullets,
knives, prison, dope, diseases, insanity, alcoholism. I imagine
it was about in that order. And so many of the survivors whom
I knew as tough hyenas and wolves of the streets in the old days
now were so pitiful. They had known all the angles, but beneath
that surface they were poor, ignorant, untrained black men; life
had eased up on them and hyped them. I ran across close to
twenty-five of these old-timers I had known pretty well, who in
the space of nine years had been reduced to the ghetto’s minor,
scavenger hustles to scratch up room rent and food money. Some
now worked downtown, messengers, janitors, things like that.
I was thankful to Allah that I had become a Muslim and escaped
their fate.

There was Cadillac Drake. He was a big jolly, cigar-smoking,
fat, black, gaudy-dressing pimp, a regular afternoon character
when I was waiting on tables in Small’s Paradise. Well, I rec-
ognized him shuffling toward me on the street. He had gotten
hooked on heroin; I’d heard that. He was the dirtiest, sloppiest
bum you ever laid eyes on. I hurried past because we would
both have been embarrassed if he recognized me, the kid he
used to toss a dollar tip.

The wire worked to locate West Indian Archie for me. The
wire of the streets, when it wants to, is something like Western
Union with the F.B.I. for messengers. At one of my early ser-
vices at Temple Seven, an old scavenger hustler, to whom I

MINISTER MALCOLM X22)

gave a few dollars, came up when services were dismissed. He
told me that West Indian Archie was sick, living up in a rented
room in the Bronx.

I took a taxi to the address. West Indian Archie opened the
door. He stood there in rumpled pajamas and barefooted, squint-
ing at me.

Have you ever seen someone who seemed a ghost of the per-
son you remembered? It took him a few seconds to fix me in his
memory. He claimed, hoarsely, ‘‘Red! I’m so glad to see you!”’

I all but hugged the old man. He was sick in that weak way.
I helped him back. He sat down on the edge of his bed. I sat in
his one chair, and I told him how his forcing me out of Harlem
had saved my life by turning me in the direction of Islam.

He said, ‘‘I always liked you, Red,’’ and he said that he had
never really wanted to kill me. I told him it had made me shudder
many times to think how close we had come to killing each
other. I told him I had sincerely thought I had hit that combi-
nated six-way number for the three hundred dollars he had paid
me. Archie said that he had later wondered if he had made some
mistake, since I was so ready to die about it. And then we agreed
that it wasn’t worth even talking about, it didn’t mean anything
anymore. He kept saying, over and over, in between other things,
that he was so glad to see me.

I went into a little of Mr. Muhammad’s teaching with Archie.
I told him how I had found out that all of us who had been in
the streets were victims of the white man’s society. I told Archie
what I had thought in prison about him; that his brain, which
could tape-record hundreds of number combinations a day,
should have been put at the service of mathematics or science.
‘*Red, that sure is something to think about,’’ I can remember
him saying.

But neither of us would say that it was not too late. I have the
feeling that he knew, as I could see, that the end was closing in
on Archie. I became too moved about what he had been and
what he had now become to be able to stay much longer. I didn’t
have much money, and he didn’t want to accept what little I was
able to press on him. But I made him take it.

I keep having to remind myself that then, in June 1954, Tem-
ple Seven in New York City was a little storefront. Why, it’s

222 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

almost unbelievable that one bus couldn’t have been filled with
the Muslims in New York City! Even among our own black
people in the Harlem ghetto, you could have said ‘‘Muslim’’ to
a thousand, and maybe only one would not have asked you
‘‘What’s that?’’ As for white people, except for that relative
handful privy to certain police or prison files, not five hundred
white people in all of America knew we existed.

I began firing Mr. Muhammad’s teaching at the New York
members and the few friends they managed to bring in. And
with each meeting, my discomfort grew that in Harlem, choked
with poor, ignorant black men suffering all of the evils that Islam
could cure, every time I lectured my heart out and then asked
those who wanted to follow Mr. Muhammad to stand, only two
or three would. And, I have to admit, sometimes not that many.

I think I was all the angrier with my own ineffectiveness be-
cause I knew the streets. I had to get myself together and think
out the problem. And the big trouble, obviously, was that we
were only one among the many voices of black discontent on
every busy Harlem comer. The different Nationalist groups, the
‘Buy Black!’’ forces, and others like that; dozens of their step-
ladder orators were trying to increase their followings. I had
nothing against anyone trying to promote independence and unity
among black men, but they still were making it tough for Mr.
Muhammad’s voice to be heard.

In my first effort to get over this hurdle, I had some little
leaflets printed. There wasn’t a much-traveled Harlem street cor-
ner that five or six good Muslim brothers and I missed. We
would step up right in front of a walking black man or woman
so that they had to accept our leaflet, and if they hesitated one
second, they had to hear us saying some catch thing such as
**Hear how the white man kidnapped and robbed and raped our
black race—’’

Next, we went to work ‘“‘fishing’’ on those Harlem corners—
on the fringes of the Nationalist meetings. The method today
has many refinements, but then it consisted of working the al-
ways shifting edges of the audiences that others had managed to
draw. At a Nationalist meeting, everyone who was listening was
interested in the revolution of the black race. We began to get
visible results almost immediately after we began thrusting
handbills in people’s hands, ‘‘Come to hear us, too, brother.

MINISTER MALCOLM X 223

The Honorable Elijah Muhammad teaches us how to cure the
black man’s spiritual, mental, moral, economic, and political
sicknesses—”’

I saw the new faces of our Temple Seven meetings. And then
we discovered the best “‘fishing’’ audience of all, by far the best-
conditioned audience for Mr. Muhammad’s teachings: the
Christian churches.

Our Sunday services were held at two P.M. All over Harlem
during the hour or so before that, Christian church services were
dismissing. We by-passed the larger churches with their higher
ratio of so-called ‘‘middle-class’’ Negroes who were so full of
pretense and ‘“‘status’’ that they wouldn’t be caught in our little
storefront.

We went ‘‘fishing’’ fast and furiously when those little evan-
gelical storefront churches each let out their thirty to fifty people
on the sidewalk. ‘‘Come to hear us, brother, sister—’’ ‘“You
haven’t heard anything until you have heard the teachings of
The Honorable Elijah Muhammad—’’ These congregations were
usually Southern migrant people, usually older, who would go
anywhere to hear what they called “‘good preaching.’’ These
were the church congregations who were always putting out
little signs announcing that inside they were selling fried chicken
and chitlin dinners to raise some money. And three or four nights
a week, they were in their storefront rehearsing for the next
Sunday, I guess, shaking and rattling and rolling the gospels
with their guitars and tambourines.

I don’t know if you know it, but there’s a whole circuit of
commercial gospel entertainers who have come out of these little
churches in the city ghettoes or from down South. People such
as Sister Rosetta Tharpe, The Clara Ward Singers are examples,
and there must be five hundred lesser lights of the same general
order. Mahalia Jackson, the greatest of them all—she was a
preacher’s daughter in Louisiana. She came up there to Chicago
where she worked cooking and scrubbing for white people and
then in a factory while she sang in the Negro churches the gospel
style that, when it caught on, made her the first Negro that
Negroes ever made famous. She was selling hundreds of thou-
sands of records among Negroes before white people ever knew
who Mahalia Jackson was. Anyway, I know that somewhere I
once read that Mahalia said that every time she can, she will

224 | THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

slip unannounced into some little ghetto storefront church and
sing with her people. She calls that ‘‘my filling station.’’

The black Chnistians we ‘‘fished’’ to our Temple were con-
ditioned, I found, by the very shock I could give them about
what had been happening to them while they worshiped a blond,
blue-eyed God. I knew the temple that I could build if I could
really get to those Christians. I tailored the teachings for them.
I would start to speak and sometimes be so emotionally charged
I had to explain myself:

‘*You see my tears, brothers and sisters. . . . Tears haven’t
been in my eyes since I was a young boy. But I cannot help this
when I feel the responsibility I have to help you comprehend for
the first time what this white man’s religion that we call Chris-
tianity has done tous... .

‘*Brothers and sisters here for the first time, please don’t let
that shock you. I know you didn’t expect this. Because almost
none of us black people have thought that maybe we were mak-
ing a mistake not wondering if there wasn’t a special religion
somewhere for us—a special religion for the black man.

‘“*Well, there zs such a religion. It’s called Islam. Let me spell
it for you, I-s-l-a-m! [slam! But I’m going to tell you about Islam
a little later. First, we need to understand some things about this
Christianity before we can understand why the answer for us 1s
Islam.

‘Brothers and sisters, the white man has brainwashed us black
people to fasten our gaze upon a blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus!
We’re worshiping a Jesus that doesn’t even look like us! Oh,
yes! Now just bear with me, listen to the teachings of the Mes-
senger of Allah, The Honorable Elijah Muhammad. Now, just
think of this. The blond-haired, blue-eyed white man has taught
you and me to worship a white Jesus, and to shout and sing and
pray to this God that’s his God, the white man’s God. The white
man has taught us to shout and sing and pray until we die, to
wait until death, for some dreamy heaven-in-the-hereafter, when
we’re dead, while this white man has his milk and honey in the
streets paved with golden dollars right here on this earth!

‘You don’t want to believe what I am telling you, brothers
and sisters? Well, I’Ll tell you what you do. You go out of here,
you just take a good look around where you live. Look at not
only how you live, but look at how anybody that you know

MINISTER MALCOLM X _225

lives—that way, you’ll be sure that you’re not just a bad-luck
accident. And when you get through looking at where you live,
then you take you a walk down across Central Park, and start to
look at what this white God had brought to the white man. I
mean, take yourself a look down there at how the white man is
living!

‘And don’t stop there. In fact, you won’t be able to stop for
long—his doormen are going to tell you ‘Move on!’ But catch a
subway and keep on downtown. Anywhere you may want to get
off, look at the white man’s apartments, businesses! Go right on
down to the tip of Manhattan Island that this devilish white man
‘stole from the trusting Indians for twenty-four dollars! Look at
his City Hall, down there; look at his Wall Street! Look at your-
self! Look at his God!”’

I had learned early one important thing, and that was to al-
ways teach in terms that the people could understand. Also,
where the Nationalists whom we had ‘‘fished’’ were almost all
men, among the storefront Christians, a heavy preponderance
were women, and I had the sense to offer something special for
them. ‘‘Beautiful black woman! The Honorable Elijah Muham-
mad teaches us that the black man is going around saying he
wants respect; well, the black man never will get anybody’s
respect until he first learns to respect his own women! The black
man needs today to stand up and throw off the weaknesses im-
posed upon him by the slavemaster white man! The black man
needs to start today to shelter and protect and respect his black
women!’’

One hundred percent would stand up without hesitation when
I said, ‘How many believe what they have heard?’’ But still
never more than an agonizing few would stand up when I in-
vited, ‘‘Will those stand who want to follow The Honorable
Elyah Muhammad?’’

I knew that our strict moral code and discipline was what
repelled them most. I fired at this point, at the reason for our
code. ‘‘The white man wants black men to stay immoral, un-
clean and ignorant. As long as we stay in these conditions we
will keep on begging him and he will control us. We never can
win freedom and justice and equality until we are doing some-
thing for ourselves!’’

The code, of course, had to be explained to any who were

226 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

tentatively interested in becoming Muslims. And the word got
around in their little storefronts quickly, which is why they would
come to hear me, yet wouldn’t join Mr. Muhammad. Any for-
nication was absolutely forbidden in the Nation of Islam. Any
eating of the filthy pork, or other injurious or unhealthful foods;
any use of tobacco, alcohol, or narcotics. No Muslim who fol-
lowed Elijah Muhammad could dance, gamble, date, attend
movies, or sports, or take long vacations from work. Muslims
slept no more than health required. Any domestic quarreling,
any discourtesy, especially to women, was not allowed. No ly-
ing or stealing, and no insubordination to civil authority, except
on the grounds of religious obligation.

Our moral laws were policed by our Fruit of Islam—able,
dedicated, and trained Muslim men. Infractions resulted in sus-
pension by Mr. Muhammad, or isolation for various periods, or
even expulsion for the worst offenses “‘from the only group that
really cares about you.”’

Temple Seven grew somewhat with each meeting. It just grew
too slowly to suit me. During the weekdays, I traveled by bus
and train. I taught each Wednesday at Philadelphia’s Temple
Twelve. I went to Springfield, Massachusetts, to try to start a
new temple. A temple which Mr. Muhammad numbered Thir-
teen was established there with the help of Brother Osborme,
who had first heard of Islam from me in prison. A lady visiting
a Springfield meeting asked if I’d come to Hartford, where she
lived; she specified the next Thursday and said she would as-
semble some friends. And I was night there.

Thursday is traditionally domestic servants’ day off. This sis-
ter had in her housing project apartment about fifteen of the
maids, cooks, chauffeurs and house men who worked for the
Hartford-area white people. You’ ve heard that saying, “‘No man
is a hero to his valet.’’ Well, those Negroes who waited on
wealthy whites hand and foot opened their eyes quicker than
most Negroes. And when they went ‘‘fishing’’ enough among
more servants, and other black people in and around Hartford,
Mr. Muhammad before long was able to assign a Hartford tem-
ple the number Fourteen. And every Thursday I scheduled my
teaching there.

Mr. Muhammad, when I went to see him in Chicago, had to

MINISTER MALCOLM X 227

chastise me on some point during nearly every visit. I just
couldn’t keep from showing in some manner that with his min-
isters equipped with the power of his message, I felt the Nation
should go much faster. His patience and his wisdom in chastis-
ing me would always humble me from head to foot. He said,
one time, that no true leader burdened his followers with a greater
load than they could carry, and no true leader sets too fast a
pace for his followers to keep up.

‘‘Most people seeing a man in an old touring car going real
slow think the man doesn’t want to go fast,’” Mr. Muhammad
said, ‘‘but the man knows that to drive any faster would destroy
the old car. When he gets a fast car, then he will drive at a fast
speed.’’ And I remember him telling me another time, when I
complained about an inefficient minister at one of his mosques,
‘I would rather have a mule I can depend upon than a race horse
that I can’t depend upon.”’

I knew that Mr. Muhammad wanted that fast car to drive.
And I don’t think you could pick the same number of faithful
brothers and sisters from the Nation of Islam today and find
‘*fishing’’ teams to beat the efforts of those who helped to bring
growth to the Boston, Philadelphia, Springfield, Hartford, and
New York temples. I’m, of course, just mentioning those that I
knew most about because I was directly involved. This was
through 1955. And 1955 was the year I made my first trip of
any distance. It was to help open the temple that today is Num-
ber Fifteen—in Atlanta, Georgia.

Any Muslim who ever moved for personal reasons from one
city to another was of course exhorted to plant seeds for Mr.
Muhammad. Brother James X, one of our top Temple Twelve
brothers, had interested enough black people in Atlanta so that
when Mr. Muhammad was advised, he told me to go to Atlanta
and hold a first meeting. I think I have had a hand in most of
Mr. Muhammad’s temples, but I’ll never forget that opening in
Atlanta.

A funeral parlor was the only place large enough that Brother
James X could afford to rent. Everything that the Nation of Islam
did in those days, from Mr. Muhammad on down, was strictly
on a shoestring. When we all arrived, though, a Christian Ne-
gro’s funeral was just dismissing, so we had to wait awhile, and
we watched the mourners out.

228 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

‘“You saw them all crying over their physical dead,’’ I told
our group when we got inside. “‘But the Nation of Islam is
rejoicing over you, our mentally dead. That may shock you,
but, oh, yes, you just don’t realize how our whole black race in
America is mentally dead. We are here today with Mr. Elijah
Muhammad’s teachings which resurrect the black man from the
dead... .”’

And, speaking of funerals, I should mention that we never
failed to get some new Muslims when non-Muslims, family and
friends of a Muslim deceased, attended our short, moving cer-
emony that illustrated Mr. Muhammad’s teaching, ‘‘Christians
have their funerals for the living, ours are for our departed.’’

As the minister of several temples, conducting the Muslim
ceremony had occasionally fallen to my lot. As Mr. Muhammad
had taught me, I would start by reading over the casket of the
departed brother or sister a prayer to Allah. Next I read a simple
obituary record of his or her life. Then I usually read from Job;
two passages, in the seventh and fourteenth chapters, where Job
speaks of no life after death. Then another passage where David,
when his son died, spoke also of no life after death.

To the audience before me, I explained why no tears were to
be shed, and why we had no flowers, or singing, or organ-
playing. ‘“We shed tears for our brother, and gave him our music
and our tears while he was alive. If he wasn’t wept for and given
our music and flowers then, well, now there is no need, because
he is no longer aware. We now will give his family any money
we might have spent.’’

Appointed Muslim Sisters quickly passed small trays from
which everyone took a thin, round patty of peppermint candy.
At my signal, the candy was put into mouths. ‘‘We will file by
now for a last look at our brother. We won’t cry—just as we
don’t cry over candy. Just as this sweet candy will dissolve, so
will our brother’s sweetness that we have enjoyed when he lived
now dissolve into a sweetness in our memories.’’

I have had probably a couple of hundred Muslims tell me that
it was attending one of our funerals for a departed brother or
sister that first turned them toward Allah. But I was to learn later
that Mr. Muhammad’s teaching about death and the Muslim
funeral service was in drastic contradiction to what Islam taught
in the East.

MINISTER MALCOLM X 229

We had grown, by 1956—well, sizable. Every temple had
‘‘fished”’ with enough success that there were far more Mus-
lims, especially in the major cities of Detroit, Chicago, and New
York than anyone would have guessed from the outside. In fact,
as you know, in the really big cities, you can have a very big
organization and, if it makes no public show, or noise, no one
will necessarily be aware that it 1s around.

But more than just increasing in numbers, Mr. Muhammad’s
version of Islam now had been getting in some other types of
black people. We began now getting those with some education,
both academic, and vocations and trades, and even some with
‘‘positions’’ in the white world, and all of this was starting to
bring us closer to the desired fast car for Mr. Muhammad to
drive. We had, for instance, some civil servants, some nurses,
clerical workers, salesmen from the department stores. And one
of the best things was that some brothers of this type were de-
veloping into smart, fine, aggressive young ministers for Mr.
Muhammad.

I went without a lot of sleep trying to merit his increasing
evidences of trust and confidence in my efforts to help build our
Nation of Islam. It was in 1956 that Mr. Muhammad was able
to authorize Temple Seven to buy and assign for my use a new
Chevrolet. (The car was the Nation’s, not mine. I had nothing
that was mine but my clothes, wrist watch, and suitcase. As in
the case of all of the Nation’s ministers, my living expenses
were paid and I had some pocket money. Where once you
couldn’t have named anything I wouldn’t have done for money,
now money was the last thing to cross my mind.) Anyway, in
letting me know about the car, Mr. Muhammad told me he knew
how I loved to roam, planting seeds for new Muslims, or more
temples, so he didn’t want me to be tied down.

In five months, I put about 30,000 miles of ‘‘fishing’’ on that
car before I had an accident. Late one night a brother and I were
coming through Weathersfield, Connecticut, when I stopped for
a red light and a car smashed into me from behind. I was just
shook up, not hurt. That excited devil had a woman with him,
hiding her face, so I knew she wasn’t his wife. We were ex-
changing our identification (he lived in Meriden, Connecticut)
when the police arrived, and their actions told me he was some-
body important. I later found out he was one of Connecticut’s

230 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

most prominent politicians; I won’t call his name. Anyway,
Temple Seven settled on a lawyer’s advice, and that money went
down on an Oldsmobile, the make of car I’ve been driving ever
since.

I had always been very careful to stay completely clear of any
personal closeness with any of the Muslim sisters. My total
commitment to Islam demanded having no other interests, es-
pecially, I felt, no women. In almost every temple at least one
single sister had let out some broad hint that she thought I needed
a wife. So I always made it clear that marriage had no interest
for me whatsoever; I was too busy.

Every month, when I went to Chicago, I would find that some
sister had written complaining to Mr. Muhammad that I talked
so hard against women when I taught our special classes about
the different natures of the two sexes. Now, Islam has very strict
laws and teachings about women, the core of them being that
the true nature of a man is to be strong, and a woman’s true
nature is to be weak, and while a man must at all times respect
his woman, at the same time he needs to understand that he must
control her if he expects to get her respect.

But in those days I had my own personal reasons. I wouldn’t
have considered it possible for me to love any woman. I’d had
too much experience that women were only tricky, deceitful,
untrustworthy flesh. I had seen too many men ruined, or at least
tied down, or in some other way messed up by women. Women
talked too much. To tell a woman not to talk too much was like
telling Jesse James not to carry a gun, or telling a hen not to
cackle. Can you imagine Jesse James without a gun, or a hen
that didn’t cackle? And for anyone in any kind of a leadership
position, such as I was, the worst thing in the world that he
could have was the wrong woman. Even Samson, the world’s
strongest man, was destroyed by the woman who slept in his
arms. She was the one whose words hurt him.

I mean, I’d had so much experience. I had talked to too many
prostitutes and mistresses. They knew more about a whole lot
of husbands than the wives of those husbands did. The wives
always filled their husbands’ ears so full of wife complaints that
it wasn’t the wives, it was the prostitutes and mistresses who
heard the husbands’ innermost problems and secrets. They

MINISTER MALCOLM XX 231

thought of him, and comforted him, and that included listening
to him, and so he would tell them everything.

Anyway, it had been ten years since I thought anything about
any mistress, I guess, and as a minister now, I was thinking
even less about getting any wife. And Mr. Muhammad himself
encouraged me to stay single.

Temple Seven sisters used to tell brothers, ‘‘You’re just stay-
ing single because Brother Minister Malcolm never looks at any-
body.’’ No, I didn’t make it any secret to any of those sisters,
how I felt. And, yes, I did tell the brothers to be very, very
careful.

This sister—well, in 1956, she joined Temple Seven. I just
noticed her, not with the slightest interest, you understand. For
about the next year, I just noticed her. You know, she never
would have dreamed I was even thinking about her. In fact,
probably you couldn’t have convinced her I even knew her
name. It was Sister Betty X. She was tall, brown-skinned—
darker than I was. And she had brown eyes.

I knew she was a native of Detroit, and that she had been a
student at Tuskegee Institute down in Alabama—an education
major. She was in New York at one of the big hospitals’ school
of nursing. She lectured to the Muslim girls’ and women’s
classes on hygiene and medical facts.

I ought to explain that each week night a different Muslim
class, or event, is scheduled. Monday night, every temple’s
Fruit of Islam trains. People think this is just military dnl, judo,
karate, things like that—which is part of the F.O.I. training, but
only one part. The F.O.I. spends a Jot more time in lectures and
discussions On men learning to be men. They deal with the re-
sponsibilities of a husband and father; what to expect of women;
the rights of women which are not to be abrogated by the hus-
band; the importance of the father-male image in the strong
household; current events; why honesty, and chastity, are vital
in a person, a home, a community, a nation, and a civilization;
why one should bathe at least once each twenty-four hours;
business principles; and things of that nature.

Then, Tuesday night in every Muslim temple is Unity Night,
where the brothers and sisters enjoy each other’s conversational
company and refreshments, such as cookies and sweet and sour
fruit punches. Wednesday nights, at eight P.M., is what is called

232 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Student Enrollment, where Islam’s basic issues are discussed; it
is about the equivalent of catechism class in the Catholic reli-
gion.

Thursday nights there are the M.G.T. (Muslim Girls’ Train-
ing) and the G.C.C. (General Civilization Class), where the
women and girls of Islam are taught how to keep homes, how
to rear children, how to care for husbands, how to cook, sew,
how to act at home and abroad, and other things that are impor-
tant to being a good Muslim sister and mother and wife.

Fridays are devoted to Civilization Night, when classes are
held for brothers and sisters in the area of the domestic relations,
emphasizing how both husbands and wives must understand and
respect each other’s true natures. Then Saturday night is for all
Muslims a free night, when, usually, they visit at each other’s
homes. And, of course, on Sundays, every Muslim temple holds
its services.

On the Thursday M.G.T. and G.C.C. nights, sometimes I
would drop in on the classes, and maybe at Sister Betty X’s
classes—just as on other nights I might drop in on the different
brothers’ classes. At first I would just ask her things like how
were the sisters learning—things like that, and she would say
‘*Fine, Brother Minister.’’ I’d say, ‘“Thank you, Sister.’’ Like
that. And that would be all there was to it. And after a while, I
would have very short conversations with her, just to be friendly.

One day I thought it would help the women’s classes if I took
her—just because she happened to be an instructor, to the Mu-
seum of Natural History. I wanted to show her some Museum
displays having to do with the tree of evolution, that would help
her in her Jectures. I could show her proofs of Mr. Muhammad’s
teachings of such things as that the filthy pig is only a large
rodent. The pig is a graft between a rat, a cat and a dog,
Mr. Muhammad taught us. When I mentioned my idea to Sister
Betty X, I made it very clear that it was just to help her lectures
to the sisters. I had even convinced myself that this was the only
reason.

Then by the time of the afternoon I said we would go, well,
I telephoned her; I told her I had to cancel the trip, that some-
thing important had come up. She said, ‘‘Well, you sure waited
long enough to tell me, Brother Minister, I was just ready to
walk out of the door.’’ So I told her, well, all right, come on

MINISTER MALCOLM X_233

then, I’d make it somehow. But I wasn’t going to have much
time.

While we were down there, offhandedly I asked her all kinds
of things. I just wanted some idea of her thinking; you under-
stand, I mean how she thought. I was halfway impressed by her
intelligence and also her education. In those days she was one
of the few whom we had attracted who had attended college.

Then, right after that, one of the older sisters confided to me
a personal problem that Sister Betty X was having. I was really
surprised that when she had had the chance, Sister Betty X had
not mentioned anything to me about it. Every Muslim minister
is always hearing the problems of young people whose parents
have ostracized them for becoming Muslims. Well, when Sister
Betty X told her foster parents, who were financing her educa-
tion, that she was a Muslim, they gave her a choice: leave the
Muslims, or they’d cut off her nursing school.

It was right near the end of her term—but she was hanging on
to Islam. She began taking baby-sitting jobs for some of the
doctors who lived on the grounds of the hospital where she was
training.

In my position, I would never have made any move without
thinking how it would affect the Nation of Islam organization as
a whole.

I got to turning it over in my mind. What would happen if I
just should happen, sometime, to think about getting married to
somebody? For instance Sister Betty X—although it could be
any sister in any temple, but Sister Betty X, for instance, would
just happen to be the right height for somebody my height, and
also the right age.

Mr. Elijah Muhammad taught us that a tall man married to a
too-short woman, or vice-versa, they looked odd, not matched.
And he taught that a wife’s ideal age was half the man’s age,
plus seven. He taught that women are physiologically ahead of
men. Mr. Muhammad taught that no marriage could succeed
where the woman did not look up with respect to the man. And
that the man had to have something above and beyond the wife
in order for her to be able to look to him for psychological
security.

I was so shocked at myself, when I realized what I was think-
ing, I quit going anywhere near Sister Betty X, or any where I

234 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

knew she would be. If she came into our restaurant and I was
there, I went out somewhere. I was glad I knew that she had no
idea what I had been thinking about. My not talking to her
wouldn’t give her any reason to think anything, since there had
never been one personal word spoken between us—even if she
had thought anything.

I studied about if I just should happen to say something to
her—what would her position be? Because she wasn’t going to
get any chance to embarrass me. I had heard too many women
bragging, “‘I told that chump ‘Get lost!’ ’’ I'd had too much
experience of the kind to make a man very cautious.

I knew one good thing; she had few relatives. My feeling
about in-laws was that they were outlaws. Right among the
Temple Seven Muslims, I had seen more marriages destroyed
by in-laws, usually anti-Muslim, than any other single thing I
knew of.

I wasn’t about to say any of that romance stuff that Hollywood
and television had filled women’s heads with. If I was going to
do something, I was going to do it directly. And anything I was
going to do, I was going to do my way. And because J wanted
to do it. Not because I saw somebody do it. Or read about it in
a book. Or saw it in a moving picture somewhere.

I told Mr. Muhammad, when I visited him in Chicago that
month, that I was thinking about a very serious step. He smiled
when he heard what it was.

I told him I was just thinking about it, that was all. Mr. Mu-
hammad said that he’d like to meet this sister.

The Nation by this time was financially able to bear the ex-
penses so that instructor sisters from different temples could be
sent to Chicago to attend the Headquarters Temple Two wom-
en’s classes, and, while there, to meet The Honorable Elijah
Muhammad in person. Sister Betty X, of course, knew all about
this, so there was no reason for her to think anything of it when
it was arranged for her to go to Chicago. And like all visiting
instructor sisters, she was the house guest of the Messenger and
Sister Clara Muhammad.

Mr. Muhammad told me that he thought that Sister Betty X
was a fine sister.

If you are thinking about doing a thing, you ought to make
up your mind if you are going to do it, or not do it. One Sunday

MINISTER MALCOLM X= _235

night, after the Temple Seven meeting, I drove my car out on
the Garden State Parkway. I was on my way to visit my brother
Wilfred, in Detroit. Wilfred, the year before, in 1957, had been
made the minister of Detroit’s Temple One. I hadn’t seen him,
or any of my family, in a good while.

It was about ten in the morning when I got inside Detroit.
Getting gas at a filling station, I just went to their pay phone on
a wall; I telephoned Sister Betty X. I had to get Information to
get the number of the nurses’ residence at this hospital. Most
numbers I memorized, but I had always made it some point
never to memorize her number. Somebody got her to the phone
finally. She said, ‘‘Oh, hello, Brother Minister—’’ I just said it
to her direct: ‘‘Look, do you want to get married?”’

Naturally, she acted all surprised and shocked.

The more I have thought about it, to this day I believe she
was only putting on an act. Because women know. They know.

She said, just like I knew she would, ‘‘Yes.’’ Then I said,
well, I didn’t have a whole lot of time, she’d better catch a plane
to Detroit.

So she grabbed a plane. I met her foster parents who lived in
Detroit. They had made up by this time. They were very friendly,
and happily surprised. At least, they acted that way.

Then I introduced Sister Betty X at my oldest brother Wilfred’s
house. I had already asked him where people could get married
without a whole lot of mess and waiting. He told me in Indiana.

Early the next moming, I picked up Betty at her parents’
home. We drove to the first town in Indiana. We found out that
only a few days before, the state law had been changed, and
now Indiana had a long waiting period.

This was the fourteenth of January, 1958; a Tuesday. We
weren’t far from Lansing, where my brother Philbert lived. I
drove there. Philbert was at work when we stopped at his house
and I introduced Betty X. She and Philbert’s wife were talking
when I found out on the phone that we could get married in one
day, if we rushed.

We got the necessary blood tests, then the license. Where the
certificate said ‘‘Religion,’’ I wrote ‘‘Muslim.’’ Then we went
to the Justice of the Peace.

An old hunchbacked white man performed the wedding. And
all of the witnesses were white. Where you are supposed to say

236 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

all those “‘I do’s,’’ we did. They were all standing there, smiling
and watching every move. The old devil said, ‘‘I pronounce you
man and wife,’’ and then, ‘‘Kiss your bride.”’

I got her out of there. All of that Hollywood stuff! Like these
women wanting men to pick them up and carry them across
thresholds and some of them weigh more than you do. I don’t
know how many marriage breakups are caused by these movie-
and television-addicted women expecting some bouquets and
kissing and hugging and being swept out like Cinderella for
dinner and dancing—then getting mad when a poor, scraggly
husband comes in tired and sweaty from working like a dog all
day, looking for some food.

We had dinner there at Philbert’s home in Lansing. “‘I’ve got
a surprise for you,’”’ I told him when we came in. ‘‘You haven’t
got any surprise for me,’’ he said. When he got home from work
and heard I’d been there introducing a Muslim sister, he knew
I was either married, or on the way to get married.

Betty’s nursing school schedule called for her to fly right back
to New York, and she could return in four days. She claims she
didn’t tell anybody in Temple Seven that we had married.

That Sunday, Mr. Muhammad was going to teach at Detroit’s
Temple One. I had an Assistant Minister in New York now; I
telephoned him to take over for me. Saturday, Betty came back.
The Messenger, after his teaching on Sunday, made the an-
nouncement. Even in Michigan, my steering clear of all sisters
was so well known, they just couldn’t believe it.

We drove night back to New York together. The news really
shook everybody in Temple Seven. Some young brothers looked
at me as though I had betrayed them. But everybody else was
grinning like Cheshire cats. The sisters just about ate up Betty.
I never will forget hearing one exclaim, ‘‘You got him!’’ That’s
like I was telling you, the nature of women. She’d got me.
That’s part of why I never have been able to shake it out of my
mind that she knew something—all the time. Maybe she did get
me!

Anyway, we lived for the next two and a half years in Queens,
sharing a house of two small apartments with Brother John Ali
and his wife of that time. He’s now the National Secretary in
Chicago.

Attallah, our oldest daughter, was born in November 1958.

MINISTER MALCOLM X__237

She’s named for Attilah the Hun (he sacked Rome). Shortly after
Attallah came, we moved to our present seven-room house in
an all-black section of Queens, Long Island.

Another girl, Qubilah (named after Qubilah Khan) was bom
on Christmas Day of 1960. Then, Ilyasah (‘‘Ilyas’’ is Arabic
for ‘‘Elijah’’) was born in July 1962. And in 1964 our fourth
daughter, Amilah, arrived.

I guess by now I will say I love Betty. She’s the only woman
I ever even thought about Joving. And she’s one of the very
few—four women—whom I have ever trusted. The thing is,
Betty’s a good Muslim woman and wife. You see, Islam is the
only religion that gives both husband and wife a true understand-
ing of what love is. The Western “‘love’’ concept, you take it
apart, it really is lust. But love transcends just the physical. Love
is disposition, behavior, attitude, thoughts, likes, dislikes—these
things make a beautiful woman, a beautiful wife. This is the
beauty that never fades. You find in your Western civilization
that when a man’s wife’s physical beauty fails, she loses her
attraction. But Islam teaches us to look into the woman, and
teaches her to look into us.

Betty does this, so she understands me. I would even say I
don’t imagine many other women might put up with the way I
am. Awakening this brainwashed black man and telling this
arrogant, devilish white man the truth about himself, Betty un-
derstands, is a full-time job. If I have work to do when I am
home, the little time I am at home, she lets me have the quiet I
need to work in. I’m rarely at home more than half of any week;
I have been away as much as five months. I never get much
chance to take her anywhere, and I know she likes to be with
her husband. She is used to my calling her from airports any-
where from Boston to San Francisco, or Miami to Seattle, or,
here lately, cabling her from Cairo, Accra, or the Holy City of
Mecca. Once on the long-distance telephone, Betty told me in
beautiful phrasing the way she thinks. She said, ‘‘ You are pres-
ent when you are away.”’

Later that year, after Betty and I were married, I exhausted
myself trying to be everywhere at once, trying to help the Nation
to keep growing. Guest-teaching at the Temple in Boston, I
ended, as always, ‘“Who among you wish to follow The Hon-

238 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

orable Elijah Muhammad?’’ And then I saw, in utter astonish-
ment, that among those who were standing was my sister—Ella!
We have a saying that those who are the hardest to convince
make the best Muslims. And for Ella it had taken five years.

I mentioned, you will remember, how in a big city, a sizable
organization can remain practically unknown, unless something
happens that brings it to the general public’s attention. Well,
certainly no one in the Nation of Islam had any anticipation of
the kind of thing that would happen in Harlem one night.

Two white policemen, breaking up a Street scuffle between
some Negroes, ordered other Negro passers-by to ‘‘Move on!”’
Of these bystanders, two happened to be Muslim brother John-
son Hinton and another brother of Temple Seven. They didn’t
scatter and run the way the white cops wanted. Brother Hinton
was attacked with nightsticks. His scalp was split open, and a
police car came and he was taken to a nearby precinct.

The second brother telephoned our restaurant. And with some
telephone calls, in less than half an hour about fifty of Temple
Seven’s men of the Fruit of Islam were standing in ranks-
formation outside the police precinct house.

Other Negroes, curious, came running, and gathered in ex-
citement behind the Muslims. The police, coming to the station
house front door, and looking out of the windows, couldn’t
believe what they saw. I went in, as the minister of Temple
Seven, and demanded to see our brother. The police first said
he wasn’t there. Then they admitted he was, but said I couldn’t
see him. I said that until he was seen, and we were sure he
received proper medical attention, the Muslims would remain
where they were.

They were nervous and scared of the gathering crowd outside.
When I saw our Brother Hinton, it was all I could do to contain
myself. He was only semi-conscious. Blood had bathed his head
and face and shoulders. I hope I never again have to withstand
seeing another case of sheer police brutality like that.

I told the lieutenant in charge, ‘“That man belongs in the
hospital.’’ They called an ambulance. When it came and Brother
Hinton was taken to Harlem Hospital, we Muslims followed, in
loose formations, for about fifteen blocks along Lenox Avenue,
probably the busiest thoroughfare in Harlem. Negroes who never

MINISTER MALCOLM X 239

had seen anything like this were coming out of stores and res-
taurants and bars and enlarging the crowd following us.

The crowd was big, and angry, behind the Muslims in front
of Harlem Hospital. Harlem’s black people were long since sick
and tired of police brutality. And they never had seen any or-
ganization of black men take a firm stand as we were.

A high police official came up to me, saying ‘‘Get those peo-
ple out of there.’’ I told him that our brothers were standing
peacefully, disciplined perfectly, and harming no one. He told
me those others, behind them, weren’t disciplined. I politely
told him those others were his problem.

When doctors assured us that Brother Hinton was receiving
the best of care, I gave the order and the Muslims slipped away.
The other Negroes’ mood was ugly, but they dispersed also,
when we left. We wouldn’t learn until later that a steel plate
would have to be put into Brother Hinton’s skull. (After that
operation, the Nation of Islam helped him to sue; a jury awarded
him over $70,000, the largest police brutality judgment that New
York City has ever paid.)

For New York City’s millions of readers of the downtown
papers, it was, at that time, another one of the periodic ‘‘Racial
Unrest in Harlem’’ stories. It was not played up, because of
what had happened. But the police department, to be sure, pulled
out and carefully studied the files on the Nation of Islam, and
appraised us with new eyes. Most important, in Harlem, the
world’s most heavily populated black ghetto, the Amsterdam
News made the whole story headline news, and for the first time
the black man, woman, and child in the streets were discussing
‘*those Muslims.”’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BLACK MUSLIMS

In the spring of nineteen fifty-nine—some months before Brother
Johnson Hinton’s case had awakened the Harlem black ghetto
to us—a Negro journalist, Louis Lomax, then living in New
York, asked me one morning whether our Nation of Islam would
cooperate in being filmed as a television documentary program
for the Mike Wallace Show, which featured controversial sub-
jects. I told Lomax that, naturally, anything like that would have
to be referred to The Honorable Elijah Muhammad. And Lomax
did fly to Chicago to consult Mr. Muhammad. After questioning
Lomax, then cautioning him against some things he did not
desire, Mr. Muhammad gave his consent.

Cameramen began filming Nation of Islam scenes around our
mosques in New York, Chicago, and Washington, D.C. Sound
recordings were made of Mr. Muhammad and some ministers,
including me, teaching black audiences the truths about the
brainwashed black man and the devil white man.

At Boston University around the same time, C. Eric Lincoln,
a Negro scholar then working for his doctorate, had selected for
his thesis subject the Nation of Islam. Lincoln’s interest had
been aroused the previous year when, teaching at Clark College
in Atlanta, Georgia, he received from one of his Religion stu-
dents a term paper whose introduction I can now quote from
Lincoln’s book. It was the plainspoken convictions of one of
Atlanta’s numerous young black collegians who often visited
our local Temple Fifteen.

‘*The Chnistian religion is incompatible with the Negro’s as-
pirations for dignity and equality in America,’’ the student had

240

BLACK MUSLIMS 241

written. ‘‘It has hindered where it might have helped; it has been
evasive when it was morally bound to be forthright; it has sep-
arated believers on the basis of color, although it has declared
its mission to be a universal brotherhood under Jesus Christ.
Christian love is the white man’s love for himself and for his
race. For the man who is not white, Islam is the hope for justice
and equality in the world we must build tomorrow.”’

After some preliminary research showed Professor Lincoln
what a subject he had hold of, he had been able to obtain several
grants, and a publisher’s encouragement to expand his thesis
into a book.

On the wire of our relatively small Nation, these two big
developments—a television show, and a book about us—naturally
were big news. Every Muslim happily anticipated that now,
through the white man’s powerful communications media, our
brainwashed black brothers and sisters across the United States,
and devils, too, were going to see, hear, and read Mr. Muham-
mad’s teachings which cut back and forth like a two-edged
sword.

We had made our own very limited efforts to employ the
power of print. First, some time back, I had made an appoint-
ment to see editor James Hicks of the Amsterdam News, pub-
lished in Harlem. Editor Hicks said he felt every voice in the
community deserved to be heard. Soon, each week’s Amsterdam
News carried a little column that I wrote. Then, Mr. Muhammad
agreed to write a column for that valuable Amsterdam News
Space, and my column was transferred to another black news-
paper, the Los Angeles Herald Dispatch.

But I kept wanting to start, somehow, our own newspaper,
that would be filled with Nation of Islam news.

Mr. Muhammad in 1957 sent me to organize a Temple in Los
Angeles. When I had done that, being in that city where the
Herald Dispatch was, I went visiting and I worked in their of-
fice; they let me observe how a newspaper was put together.
I’ve always been blessed in that if I can once watch something
being done, generally I can catch onto how to do it myself.
Quick ‘‘picking up’’ was probably the number one survival rule
when I’d been out there in the streets as a hustler.

Back in New York, I bought a secondhand camera. I don’t
know how many rolls of film I shot until I could take usable

242 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

pictures. Every chance I had, I wrote some little news about
interesting Nation of Islam happenings. One day every month,
I'd lock up in a room and assemble my material and pictures for
a printer that I found. I named the newspaper Muhammad Speaks
and Muslim brothers sold it on the ghetto sidewalks. Little did
I dream that later on, when jealousy set in among the hierarchy,
nothing about me would be printed in the paper I had founded.

Anyway, national publicity was in the offing for the Nation
of Islam when Mr. Muhammad sent me on a three-week trip to
Africa. Even as small as we then were, some of the African and
Asian personages had sent Mr. Muhammad private word that
they liked his efforts to awaken and lift up the American black
people. Sometimes, the messages had been sent through me. As
Mr. Muhammad’s emissary, I went to Egypt, Arabia, to the
Sudan, to Nigeria, and Ghana.

You will often hear today a lot of the Negro leaders complain-
ing that what thrust the Muslims into international prominence
was the white man’s press, radio, television, and other media.
I have no shred of argument with that. They are absolutely cor-
rect. Why, none of us in the Nation of Islam remotely antici-
pated what was about to happen.

In late 1959, the television program was aired. ‘“The Hate
That Hate Produced’’—the title—was edited tightly into a ka-
leidoscope of ‘‘shocker’’ images . . . Mr. Muhammad, me. and
others speaking . . . strong-looking, set-faced black men, our
Fruit of Islam. . . white-scarved, white-gowned Muslim sisters
of all ages . . . Muslims in our restaurants, and other busi-
nesses . . . Muslims and other black people entering and leaving
our mosques. . . .

Every phrase was edited to increase the shock mood. As the
producers intended, I think people sat just about limp when the
program went off.

In a way, the public reaction was like what happened back in
the 1930’s when Orson Welles frightened America with a radio
program describing, as though it was actually happening, an
invasion by ‘‘men from Mars.”’

No one now jumped from any windows, but in New York
City there was an instant avalanche of public reaction. It’s my
personal opinion that the ‘‘Hate ... Hate. . .”’ title was pri-

BLACK MUSLIMS 243

marily responsible for the reaction. Hundreds of thousands of
New Yorkers, black and white, were exclaiming ‘‘Did you hear
it? Did you see it? Preaching hate of white people!”’

Here was one of the white man’s most characteristic behavior
patterns—where black men are concemed. He loves himself so
much that he is startled if he discovers that his victims don’t
share his vainglorious self-opinion. In America for centuries it
had been just fine as long as the victimized, brutalized and ex-
ploited black people had been grinning and begging and “*Yessa,
Massa’’ and Uncle Tomming. But now, things were different.
First came the white newspapers—feature wniters and colum-
nists: ‘‘Alarming’’ . . . ‘‘hate-messengers’’ . . . ‘‘threat to the
good relations between the races’’. . . ““‘black segregationists’’
.. . ‘‘black supremacists,’’ and the like.

And the newspapers’ ink wasn’t dry before the big national

weekly news magazines started: ‘“Hate-teachers’’. . . “‘violence-
seekers’? . . . “‘black racists’’ . . . “‘black fascists’’ . . . “‘anti-
Christian’ . . . ‘‘possibly Communist-inspired. . . .”’

It rolled out of the presses of the biggest devil in the history
of mankind. And then the aroused white man made his next
move.

Since slavery, the American white man has always kept some
handpicked Negroes who fared much better than the black
masses suffering and slaving out in the hot fields. The white
man had these “‘house’’ and ‘‘yard’’ Negroes for his special
servants. He threw them more crumbs from his rich table, he
even let them eat in his kitchen. He knew that he could always
count on them to keep ‘‘good massa’’ happy in his self-image
of being so ‘‘good’’ and “‘nghteous.’’ ‘‘Good massa’’ always
heard just what he wanted to hear from these ‘‘house’’ and
‘‘yard’’ blacks. ‘“You’re such a good, fine massa!’’ Or, ‘‘Oh,
massa, those old black nigger fieldhands out there, they’re happy
just like they are; why, massa, they’re not intelligent enough for
you to try and do any better for them, massa—’’

Well, slavery time’s ‘‘house’’ and ‘‘yard’’ Negroes had be-
come more sophisticated, that was all. When now the white man
picked up his telephone and dialed his ‘‘house’’ and ‘‘yard’’
Negroes—why, he didn’t even need to instruct the trained black
puppets. They had seen the television program; had read the

244 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

newspapers. They were already composing their lines. They
knew what to do.

I’m not going to call any names. But if you make a list of the
biggest Negro ‘‘leaders,”’ so-called, in 1960, then you’ve named
the ones who began to attack us ‘‘field’’ Negroes who were
sounding insane, talking that way about “‘good massa.”’

‘*‘By no means do these Muslims represent the Negro
masses—’’ That was the first worry, to reassure ‘‘good massa’’
that he had no reason to be concerned about his fieldhands in
the ghettoes. ‘‘An irresponsible hate cult’’. . . ‘‘an unfortunate
Negro image, just when the racial picture is improving—”’

They were stumbling over each other to get quoted. *‘A de-
plorable reverse-racism’’ . . . “‘Ridiculous pretenders to the an-
cient Islamic doctrine’’ . . . ‘‘Heretic anti-Christianity—”’

The telephone in our then small Temple Seven restaurant
nearly jumped off the wall. I had a receiver against my ear five
hours a day. I was listening, and jotting in my notebook, as
press, radio, and television people called, all of them wanting
the Muslim reaction to the quoted attacks of these black ‘‘lead-
ers.’” Or J was on long-distance to Mr. Muhammad in Chicago,
reading from my notebook and asking for Mr. Muhammad’s
instructions.

I couldn’t understand how Mr. Muhammad could maintain
his calm and patience, hearing the things I told him. I could
scarcely contain myself.

My unlisted home telephone number somehow got out. My
wife Betty put down the phone after taking one message, and it
was ringing again. It seemed that wherever I went, telephones
were ringing.

The calls naturally were directed to me, New York City being
the major news-media headquarters, and I was the New York
minister of Mr. Muhammad. Calls came, long-distance from
San Francisco to Maine .. . from even London, Stockholm,
Paris. I would see a Muslim brother at our restaurant, or Betty
at home, trying to keep cool; they’d hand me the receiver, and
I couldn’t believe it, either. One funny thing—in all that hectic
period, something quickly struck my notice: the Europeans never
pressed the ‘‘hate’’ question. Only the American white man was
so plagued and obsessed with being ‘‘hated.’’ He was so guilty,
it was clear to me, of hating Negroes.

BLACK MUSLIMS 245

‘*Mr. Malcolm X, why do you teach black supremacy, and
hate?’’ A red flag waved for me, something chemical happened
inside me, every time I heard that. When we Muslims had talked
about ‘‘the devil white man’’ he had been relatively abstract,
someone we Muslims rarely actually came into contact with,
but now here was that devil-in-the-flesh on the phone—with all
of his calculating, cold-eyed, self-nghteous tricks and nerve and
gall. The voices questioning me became to me as breathing,
living devils.

And I tried to pour on pure fire in return. ‘“The white man so
guilty of white supremacy can’t hide his guilt by trying to accuse
The Honorable Elijah Muhammad of teaching black supremacy
and hate! All Mr. Muhammad is doing is trying to uplift the
black man’s mentality and the black man’s social and economic
condition in this country.

‘“The guilty, two-faced white man can’t decide what he wants.
Our slave foreparents would have been put to death for advo-
cating so-called ‘integration’ with the white man. Now when
Mr. Muhammad speaks of ‘separation,’ the white man calls us
‘hate-teachers’ and ‘fascists’!

‘The white man doesn’t want the blacks! He doesn’t want
the blacks that are a parasite upon him! He doesn’t want this
black man whose presence and condition in this country expose
the white man to the world for what he is! So why do you attack
Mr. Muhammad?’’

I'd have scathing in my voice; I felt it.

‘*For the white man to ask the black man if he hates him is
just like the rapist asking the raped, or the wolf asking the sheep,
‘Do you hate me?’ The white man is in no moral position to
accuse anyone else of hate!

‘“Why, when all of my ancestors are snake-bitten, and I’m
snake-bitten, and I warn my children to avoid snakes, what does
that snake sound like accusing me of hate-teaching?’”’

‘‘Mr. Malcolm X,’’ those devils would ask, “‘why is your
Fruit of Islam being trained in judo and karate?’’ An image of
black men learning anything suggesting self-defense seemed to
terrify the white man. I’d turn their question around: ‘‘Why does
judo or karate suddenly get so ominous because black men study
it? Across America, the Boy Scouts, the YMCA, even the
YWCA, the CYP, PAL—they all teach judo! It’s all right, it’s

246 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

fine—until black men teach it! Even littlke grammar school
classes, little girls, are taught to defend themselves—’’

‘“How many of you are in your organization, Mr. Malcolm X?
Right Reverend Bishop T. Chickenwing says you have only a
handful of members—’”’

‘‘Whoever tells you how many Muslims there are doesn’t
know, and whoever does know will never tell you—”’

The Bishop Chickenwings were also often quoted about our
‘‘anti-Christianity.’’ I’d fire mght back on that:

‘‘Christianity is the white man’s religion. The Holy Bible in
the white man’s hands and his interpretations of it have been the
greatest single ideological weapon for enslaving millions of non-
white human beings. Every country the white man has con-
quered with his guns, he has always paved the way, and salved
his conscience, by carrying the Bible and interpreting it to call
the people ‘heathens’ and ‘pagans’; then he sends his guns, then
his missionaries behind the guns to mop up—”’

White reporters, anger in their voices, would call us ‘*dema-
gogues,’’ and I would try to be ready after I had been asked the
same question two or three times.

‘Well, let’s go back to the Greek, and maybe you will learn
the first thing you need to know about the word ‘demagogue. ’
‘Demnagogue’ means, actually, ‘teacher of the people.’ And let’s
examine some demagogues. The greatest of all Greeks, Socra-
tes, was killed as a ‘demagogue.’ Jesus Christ died on the cross
because the Pharisees of His day were upholding their law, not
the spirit. The modern Pharisees are trying to heap destruction
upon Mr. Muhammad, calling him a demagogue, a crackpot,
and fanatic. What about Gandhi? The man that Churchill called
‘a naked little fakir,’ refusing food in a British jail? But then a
quarter of a billion people, a whole subcontinent, rallied behind
Gandhi—and they twisted the British lion’s tail! What about
Galileo, standing before his inquisitors, saying “The earth does
move!’ What about Martin Luther, nailing on a door his thesis
against the all-powerful Catholic church which called him ‘her-
etic’? We, the followers of The Honorable Elijah Muhammad,
are today in the ghettoes as once the sect of Christianity’s follow-
ers were like termites in the catacombs and the grottoes—and they
were preparing the grave of the mighty Roman Empire!’’

I can remember those hot telephone sessions with those re-

BLACK MUSLIMS 247

porters as if it were yesterday. The reporters were angry. I was
angry. When I’d reach into history, they’d try to pull me back
to the present. They would quit interviewing, quit their work,
trying to defend their personal white devil selves. They would
unearth Lincoln and his freeing of the slaves. I’d tell them things
Lincoln said in speeches, against the blacks. They would drag
up the 1954 Supreme Court decision on school integration.

‘‘That was one of the greatest magical feats ever performed
in America,”’ I’d tell them. ‘‘Do you mean to tell me that nine
Supreme Court judges, who are past masters of legal phraseol-
ogy, couldn’t have worked their decision to make it stick as
law? No! It was trickery and magic that told Negroes they were
desegregated—Hooray! Hooray!—and at the same time it told
whites ‘Here are your loopholes.’ ”’

The reporters would try their utmost to raise some ‘‘good’’
white man whom I couldn’t refute as such. I’ll never forget how
one practically lost his voice. He asked me did I feel any white
men had ever done anything for the black man in America. I
told him, ‘‘Yes, I can think of two. Hitler, and Stalin. The black
man in America couldn’t get a decent factory job until Hitler
put so much pressure on the white man. And then Stalin kept
up the pressure—’’

But I don’t care what points I made in the interviews, it prac-
tically never got printed the way I said it. I was learning under
fire how the press, when it wants to, can twist, and slant. If I
had said ‘‘Mary had a little lamb,’’ what probably would have
appeared was ‘‘Malcolm X Lampoons Mary.”’

Even so, my bitterness was less against the white press than
it was against those Negro ‘‘leaders’’ who kept attacking us.
Mr. Muhammad said he wanted us to try our best not to publicly
counterattack the black ‘‘leaders’’ because one of the white
man’s tricks was keeping the black race divided and fighting
against each other. Mr. Muhammad said that this had tradition-
ally kept the black people from achieving the unity which was
the worst need of the black race in America.

But instead of abating, the black puppets continued ripping
and tearing at Mr. Muhammad and the Nation of Islam—until
it began to appear as though we were afraid to speak out against
these ‘‘important’’ Negroes. That’s when Mr. Muhammad’s pa-
tience wore thin. And with his nod, I began returning their fire.

248 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

‘*Today’s Uncle Tom doesn’t wear a handkerchief on his
head. This modern, twentieth-century Uncle Thomas now often
wears a top hat. He’s usually well-dressed and well-educated.
He’s often the personification of culture and refinement. The
twentieth-century Uncle Thomas sometimes speaks with a Yale
or Harvard accent. Sometimes he is known as Professor, Doc-
tor, Judge, and Reverend, even Right Reverend Doctor. This
twentieth-century Uncle Thomas is a professional Negro. . .
by that I mean his profession is being a Negro for the white
man.”’

Never before in America had these hand-picked so-called
‘‘leaders’’ been publicly blasted in this way. They reacted to the
truth about themselves even more hotly than the devilish white
man. Now their ‘‘institutional’’ indictments of us began. Instead
of ‘‘leaders’’ speaking as themselves, for themselves, now their
weighty name organizations attacked Mr. Muhammad.

‘Black bodies with white heads!’’ I called them what they
were. Every one of those ‘‘Negro progress’ organizations had
the same composition. Black “‘leaders’’ were out in the public
eye—to be seen by the Negroes for whom they were supposed
to be fighting the white man. But obscurely, behind the scenes,
was a white boss—a president, or board chairman, or some other
title, pulling the real strings.

It was hot, hot copy, both in the white and the black press.
Life, Look, Newsweek and Time reported us. Some newspaper
chains began to run not one story, but a series of three, four, or
five ‘‘exposures’’ of the Nation of Islam. The Reader’s Digest
with its worldwide circulation of twenty-four million copies in
thirteen languages carried an article titled ‘‘Mr. Muhammad
Speaks,’’ by the writer to whom I am telling this book; and that
led off other major monthly magazines’ coverage of us.

Before very long, radio and television people began asking
me to defend our Nation of Islam in panel discussions and de-
bates. I was to be confronted by hand-picked scholars, both whites
and some of those Ph.D. ‘‘house’’ and ‘‘yard’’ Negroes who
had been attacking us. Every day, I was more incensed with the
general misrepresentation and distortion of Mr. Muhammad’s
teachings; I truly think that not once did it cross my mind that
previously I never had been inside a radio or television station—

BLACK MUSLIMS 249

let alone faced a microphone to audiences of millions of people.
Prison debating had been my only experience speaking to any-
one but Muslims.

From the old hustling days I knew that there were tricks to
everything. In the prison debating, I had learned tricks to upset
my opponents, to catch them where they didn’t expect to be
caught. I knew there were bound to be tricks I didn’t know
anything about arguing on the air.

I knew that if I closely studied what the others did, I could
learn things in a hurry to help me to defend Mr. Muhammad
and his teachings.

I’d walk into those studios. The devils and black Ph.D. pup-
pets would be acting so friendly and ‘‘integrated’’ with each
other—laughing and calling each other by first names, and all
that; it was such a big lie it made me sick in my stomach. They
would even be trying to act friendly toward me—we all knowing
they had asked me there to try and beat out my brains. They
would offer me coffee. I would tell them ‘‘No, thanks,’’ to please
just tell me where was I supposed to sit. Sometimes the micro-
phone sat on the table before you, at other times a smaller,
cylindrical microphone was hung on a cord around your neck.
From the start, I liked those microphones better; I didn’t have
to keep constantly aware of my distance from a microphone on
the table.

The program hosts would start with some kind of dice-loading,
non-religious introduction for me. It would be something like
‘‘_-and we have with us today the fiery, angry chief Malcolm X
of the New York Muslims. .. .’’ I made up my own intro-
duction. At home, or driving my car, I practiced until I could
interrupt a radio or television host and introduce myself.

‘‘T represent Mr. Elijah Muhammad, the spiritual head of the
fastest-growing group of Muslims in the Western Hemisphere.
We who follow him know that he has been divinely taught and
sent to us by God Himself. We believe that the miserable plight
of America’s twenty million black people is the fulfillment of
divine prophecy. We also believe the presence today in America
of The Honorable Elijah Muhammad, his teachings among the
so-called Negroes, and his naked warning to America concern-
ing her treatment of these so-called Negroes, is all the fulfillment
of divine prophecy. I am privileged to be the minister of our

250 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Temple Number Seven here in New York City which is a part
of the Nation of Islam, under the divine leadership of The Hon-
orable Elijah Muhammad—’’

I would look around at those devils and their trained black
parrots staring at me, while I was catching my breath—and I
had set my tone.

They would outdo each other, leaping in on me, hammering
at Mr. Muhammad, at me, and at the Nation of Islam. Those
‘‘integration’’-mad Negroes—you know what they jumped on.
Why couldn’t Muslims see that ‘‘integration’’ was the answer
to American Negroes’ problems? I’d try to rip that to pieces.

‘*No sane black man really wants integration! No sane white
man really wants integration! No sane black man really believes
that the white man ever will give the black man anything more
than token integration. No! The Honorable Elijah Muhammad
teaches that for the black man in America the only solution is
complete separation from the white man!”’

Anyone who has ever heard me on radio or television pro-
grams knows that my technique is non-stop, until what I want
to get said is said. I was developing the technique then.

‘‘The Honorable Elijah Muhammad teaches us that since
Wester society is deteriorating, it has become overrun with
immorality, and God is going to judge it, and destroy it. And
the only way the black people caught up in this society can be
saved is not to integrate into this corrupt society, but to separate
from it, to a land of our own, where we can reform ourselves,
lift up our moral standards, and try to be godly. The Western
world’s most learned diplomats have failed to solve this grave
race problem. Her learned legal experts have failed. Her so-
ciologists have failed. Her civil leaders have failed. Her fraternal
leaders have failed. Since all of these have failed to solve this
race problem, it is time for us to sit down and reason! | am
certain that we will be forced to agree that it takes God Himself
to solve this grave racial dilemma.’’

Every time I mentioned ‘‘separation,’’ some of them would
cry that we Muslims were standing for the same thing that white
racists and demagogues stood for. I would explain the differ-
ence. “‘No! We reject segregation even more militantly than
you say you do! We want separation, which is not the same!
The Honorable Elijah Muhammad teaches us that segregation

BLACK MUSLIMS 251

is when your life and liberty are controlled, regulated, by some-
one else. To segregate means to control. Segregation is that
which is forced upon inferiors by superiors. But separation 1s
that which is done voluntarily, by two equals—for the good of
both! The Honorable Elijah Muhammad teaches us that as long
as our people here in America are dependent upon the white
man, we will always be begging him for jobs, food, clothing,
and housing. And he will always control our lives, regulate our
lives, and have the power to segregate us. The Negro here in
America has been treated like a child. A child stays within the
mother until the time of birth! When the time of birth arrives,
the child must be separated, or it will destroy its mother and
itself. The mother can’t carry that child after its time. The child
cries for and needs its own world!’’

Anyone who has listened to me will have to agree that I be-
lieved in Elijah Muhammad and represented him one hundred
per cent. I never tried to take any credit for myself.

I was never in one of those panel discussions without some
of them just waiting their chance to accuse me of ‘‘inciting
Negroes to violence.’’ I didn’t even have to do any special
studying to prepare for that one.

‘‘The greatest miracle Christianity has achieved in America
is that the black man in white Christian hands has not grown
violent. It is a miracle that 22 million black people have not
risen up against their oppressors—in which they would have
been justified by all moral criteria, and even by the democratic
tradition! It is a miracle that a nation of black people has so
fervently continued to believe in a turmm-the-other-cheek and
heaven-for-you-after-you-die philosophy! It is a miracle that the
American black people have remained a peaceful people, while
catching all the centuries of hell that they have caught, here in
white man’s heaven! The miracle is that the white man’s puppet
Negro ‘leaders,’ his preachers and the educated Negroes laden
with degrees, and others who have been allowed to wax fat off
their black poor brothers, have been able to hold the black masses
quiet until now.’’

I guarantee you one thing—every time I was mixed up in those
studios with those brainwashed, ‘‘integration’’-mad black pup-
pets, and those tricky devils trying to rip and tear me down, as

252 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

long as the little red light glowed ‘‘on the air,’’ I tried to rep-
resent Elijah Muhammad and the Nation of Islam to the utmost.

Dr. C. Eric Lincoln’s book was published amid widening
controversy about us Muslims, at just about the time we were
starting to put on our first big mass rallies.

Just as the television ‘‘Hate That Hate Produced’’ title had
projected that ‘‘hate-teaching’’ image of us, now Dr. Lincoln’s
book was titled The Black Muslims in America. The press
snatched at that name. ‘‘Black Muslims’’ was in all the book
reviews, which quoted from the book only what was critical of
us, and generally praised Dr. Lincoln’s writing.

The public mind fixed on ‘*Black Muslims.’’ From Mr. Mu-
hammad on down, the name ‘‘Black Muslims’’ distressed ev-
eryone in the Nation of Islam. I tried for at least two years to
kill off that ‘‘Black Muslims.’’ Every newspaper and magazine
writer and microphone I got close to: ‘‘No! We are black people
here in America. Our religion is Islam. We are properly called
‘Muslims’!’’ But that ‘‘Black Muslims’’ name never got dis-
lodged.

Our mass rallies, from their very beginning, were astounding
successes. Where once Detroit’s struggling little Temple One
proudly sent a ten-automobile caravan to Chicago to hear Mr.
Muhammad, now, from East Coast Temples—the older Tem-
ples as well as the new ones that all of the massive publicity had
helped us to bring into being—as many as 150, 200 and even as
many as 300 big, chartered buses rolled the highways to wher-
ever Mr. Muhammad was going to speak. On each bus, two
Fruit of Islam men were in charge. Big three-by-nine-foot painted
canvas banners hung on the buses’ sides, to be read by the high-
way traffic and thousands of people at home and on the side-
walks of the towns the buses passed through.

Hundreds more Muslims and curious Negroes drove their own
cars. And Mr. Muhammad with his personal jet plane from
Chicago. From the airport to the rally hall, Mr. Muhammad’s
motorcade had a siren-screaming police escort. Law agencies
once had scoffed at our Nation as “‘black crackpots’’; now they
took special pains to safeguard against some ‘‘white crackpots’’
causing any “‘incidents’’ or ‘‘accidents.”’

America had never seen such fantastic all-black meetings! To
hear Elijah Muhammad, up to ten thousand and more black

BLACK MUSLIMS 253

people poured from public and private transportation to overflow
the big halls we rented, such as the St. Nicholas Arena in New
York City, Chicago’s Coliseum, and Washington, D.C.’s Uline
Arena.

The white man was barred from attendance—the first time the
American black man had ever dreamed of such a thing. And
that brought us new attacks from the white man and his black
puppets. ““Black segregationists . . . racists!’’ Accusing us of
segregation! Across America, whites barring blacks was stan-
dard.

Many hundreds arrived too late for us to seat them. We always
had to wire up outside loudspeakers. An electric atmosphere
excited the great, shifting masses of black people. The long
lines, three and four abreast, funneling to the meeting hall, were
kept in strict order by Fruit of Islam men communicating by
walkie-talkie. In anterooms just inside the halls, more Fruit of
Islam men and white-gowned, veiled mature Muslim sisters
thoroughly searched every man, woman, and child seeking to
enter. Any alcohol and tobacco had to be checked, and any
objects which could possibly be used to attempt to harm Mr.
Muhammad. He always seemed deathly afraid that some one
would harm him, and he insisted that everyone be searched to
forestall this. Today I understand better, why.

The hundreds of Fruit of Islam men represented contingents
which had arrived early that morning, from their Temples in the
nearest cities. Some were detailed as ushers, who seated the
people by designated sections. The balconies and the rear half
of the main floor were filled with black people of the general
public. Ahead of them were the all-Muslim seating sections—
the white-garbed beautiful black sisters, and the dark-suited,
white-shirted brothers. A special section near the front was for
black so-called ‘‘dignitaries.’” Many of these had been invited.
Among them were our black puppet and parrot attackers, the
intellectuals and professional Negroes over whom Mr. Muham-
mad grieved so much, for these were the educated ones who
should have been foremost in leading their poor black brothers
out of the maze of misery and want. We wanted them to miss
not a single syllable of the truths from Mr. Muhammad in per-
son.

The front two or three press rows were filled with the black

254 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

reporters and cameramen representing the Negro press, or those
who had been hired by the white man’s newspapers, magazines,
radio, and television. America’s black writers should hold a
banquet for Mr. Muhammad. Writing about the Nation of Islam
was the path to success for most of the black writers who now
are recognized.

Up on the speaker’s platform, we ministers and other officials
of the Nation, entering from backstage, found ourselves chairs
in the five or six rows behind the big chair reserved for Mr.
Muhammad. Some of the ministers had come hundreds of miles
to be present. We would be turning about in our chairs, beaming
with smiles, wringing each other’s hands, and exchanging “‘As-
Salaam-Alaikum’’ and ‘‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam’’ in our genuine
deep rejoicing to see each other again.

Always, meeting us older hands in Mr. Muhammad’s service
for the first time, there were several new ministers of small new
Temples. My brothers Wilfred and Philbert were respectively
now the ministers of the Detroit and Lansing Temples. Minister
Jeremiah X headed Atlanta’s Temple. Minister John X had Los
Angeles’ Temple. The Messenger’s son, Minister Wallace Mu-
hammad, had the Philadelphia Temple. Minister Woodrow X
had the Atlantic City Temple. Some of our ministers had un-
usual backgrounds. The Washington, D.C., Temple Minister
Lucius X was previously a Seventh Day Adventist and a 32nd
degree Mason. Minister George X of the Camden, New Jersey,
Temple was a pathologist. Minister David X was previously the
minister of a Richmond, Virginia, Christian church; he and
enough of his congregation had become Muslims so that the
congregation split and the majority tumed the church into our
Richmond Temple. The Boston Temple’s outstanding young
Minister Louis X, previously a well-known and rising popular
singer called ‘“The Charmer,’’ had written our Nation’s popular
first song, titled ‘“White Man’s Heaven is Black Man’s Hell.’’
Minister Louis X had also authored our first play, ‘‘Orgena’’
(‘“‘A Negro’’ spelled backwards); its theme was the all-black
trial of a symbolic white man for his world crimes against non-
whites; found guilty, sentenced to death, he was dragged off
shouting about all he had done ‘‘for the nigra people.’’

Younger even than our talented Louis X were some newer
ministers, Minister Thomas J. X of the Hartford Temple be-

BLACK MUSLIMS 255

ing one example, and another the Buffalo Temple’s Minister
Robert J. X.

I had either originally established or organized for Mr. Mu-
hammad most of the represented temples. Greeting each of these
Temples’ brother ministers would bring back into my mind
images of ‘‘fishing’’ for converts along the streets and from door-
to-door wherever the black people were congregated. I remem-
bered the countless meetings in living rooms where maybe seven
would be a crowd; the gradually building, building—on up to
renting folding chairs for dingy little storefronts which Muslims
scrubbed to spotlessness.

We together on a huge hall’s speaking platform, and that vast
audience before us, miraculously manifested, as far as I was
concerned, the incomprehensible power of Allah. For the first
time, I truly understood something Mr. Muhammad had told
me: he claimed that when he was going through the sacrificial
trials of fleeing the black hypocrites from city to city, Allah had
often sent him visions of great audiences who would one day
hear the teachings; and Mr. Muhammad said the visions also
buoyed him when he was locked up for years in the white man’s
prison.

The great audience’s restless whisperings would cease... .

At the microphone would be the Nation’s National Secretary
John Ali, or the Boston Temple Minister Louis X. They enliv-
ened the all-black atmosphere, speaking of the new world open
to the black man through the Nation of Islam. Sister Tynetta
Dynear would speak beautifully of the Muslim women’s pow-
erful, vital contributions, of the Muslim women’s roles in our
Nation’s efforts to raise the physical, mental, moral, social, and
political condition of America’s black people.

Next, I would come to the microphone, specifically to con-
dition the audience to hear Mr. Muhammad, who had flown
from Chicago to teach us all in person.

I would raise up my hand, ‘‘As-Salaikum-Salaam—’”’

“‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam!’’ It was a roared response from the
great audience’s Muslim seating section.

There was a general pattern that I would follow on these oc-
casions:

‘‘My black brothers and sisters—of all religious beliefs, or of

256 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

no religious beliefs—we all have in common the greatest binding
tie we could have. . . we all are black people!

‘‘I’m not going to take all day telling you some of the great-
nesses of The Honorable Elijah Muhammad. I’m just going to
tell you now his greatest greatness! He is the first, the only black
leader to identify, to you and me, who is our enemy!

‘‘The Honorable Elijah Muhammad is the first black leader
among us with the courage to tell us—out here in public—
something which when you begin to think of it back in your
homes, you will realize we black people have been living with,
we have been seeing, we have been suffering, all of our lives!

‘‘Our enemy is the white man!

‘And why is Mr. Muhammad's teaching us this such a great
thing? Because when you know who your enemy is, he can no
longer keep you divided, and fighting, one brother against the
other! Because when you recognize who your enemy is, he can
no longer use trickery, promises, lies, hypocrisy, and his evil
acts to keep you deaf, dumb, and blinded!

‘‘When you recognize who your enemy 1s, he can no longer
brainwash you, he can no longer pull wool over your eyes so
that you never stop to see that you are living in pure hell on this
earth, while he lives in pure heaven right on this same earth! —
This enemy who tells you that you are both supposed to be
worshiping the same white Christian God that—you are told—
stands for the same things for all men!

‘Oh, yes, that devil is our enemy. I’ll prove it! Pick up any
daily newspaper! Read the false charges leveled against our be-
loved religious leader. It only points up the fact that the Cau-
Casian race never wants any black man who is not their puppet
or parrot to speak for our people. This Caucasian devil slave-
master does not want or trust us to leave him—yet when we stay
here among him, he continues to keep us at the very lowest level
of his society!

*‘The white man has always loved it when he could keep us
black men tucked away somewhere, always out of sight, around
the corner! The white man has always loved the kind of black
leaders whom he could ask, ‘Well, how’s things with your peo-
ple up there?’ But because Mr. Elijah Muhammad takes an un-
compromising stand with the white man, the white man hates
him! When you hear the white man hate him, you, too, because

BLACK MUSLIMS 257

you don’t understand Biblical prophecy, wrongly label Mr. Mu-
hammad—as a racist, a hate-teacher, or of being anti-white and
teaching black supremacy—’’

The audience suddenly would begin a rustling of turning. . . .

Mr. Muhammad would be rapidly moving along up a center
aisle from the rear—as once he had entered our humble little
mosques—this man whom we regarded as Islam’s gentle, meek,
brown-skinned Lamb. Stalwart, striding, close-cropped, hand-
picked Fruit of Islam guards were a circle surrounding him. He
carried his Holy Bible, his holy Quran. The small, dark pillbox
atop his head was gold-embroidered with Islam’s flag, the sun,
moon, and stars. The Muslims were crying out their adoration
and their welcome. ‘‘Little Lamb!’’ ‘‘As-Salaikum-Salaam!’’
‘*Praise be to Allah!”’

Tears would be in more eyes than mine. He had rescued me
when I was a convict; Mr. Muhammad had trained me in his
home, as if I was his son. I think that my life’s peaks of emotion,
until recently, at least, were when, suddenly, the Fruit of Islam
guards would stop stiffly at attention, and the platform’s several
steps would be mounted alone by Mr. Muhammad, and his min-
isters, including me, sprang around him, embracing him, wring-
ing both his hands... .

I would tum nght back to the microphone, not to keep waiting
those world’s biggest black audiences who had come to hear
him.

‘*My black brothers and sisters—no one will know who we
are. . . until we know who we are! We never will be able to go
anywhere until we know where we are! The Honorable Elijah
Muhammad is giving us a true identity, and a true position—the
first time they have ever been known to the American black man!

‘You can be around this man and never dream from his ac-
tions the power and the authority he has—’’ (Behind me, believe
me when I tell you, I could feel Mr. Muhammad’s power.)

‘*He does not display, and parade, his power! But no other
black leader in America has followers who will lay down their
lives if he says so! And I don’t mean all of this non-violent,
begging-the-white-man kind of dying . . . all of this sitting-in,
sliding-in, wading-in, eating-in, diving-in, and all the rest—

‘“My black brothers and sisters, you have come from your
homes to hear—now you are going to hear—America’s wisest

258 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

black man! America’s boldest black man! America’s most fear-
less black man! This wilderness of North America’s most pow-
erful black man!’’

Mr. Muhammad would come quickly to the stand, looking
out over the vacuum-quiet audience, his gentle-looking face set,
for just a fleeting moment. Then, ‘‘As-Salaikum-Salaam—”’

‘“WA-ALAIKUM-SALAAM!”’

The Muslims roared it, as they settled to listen. From expe-
rience, they knew that for the next two hours Mr. Muhammad
would wield his two-edged sword of truth. In fact, every Muslim
worried that he overtaxed himself in the length of his speeches,
considering his bronchial asthmatic condition.

‘*T don’t have a degree like many of you out there before me
have. But history don’t care anything about your degrees.

‘‘The white man, he has filled you with a fear of him from
ever since you were little black babies. So over you is the great-
est enemy a man can have—and that is fear. I know some of
you are afraid to listen to the truth—you have been raised on
fear and lies. But I am going to preach to you the truth until you
are free of that fear. . .

‘*Your slavemaster, he brought you over here, and of your
past everything was destroyed. Today, you do not know your
true language. What tribe are you from? You would not recog-
nize your tribe’s name if you heard it. You don’t know nothing
about your true culture. You don’t even know your family’s real
name. You are wearing a white man’s name! The white slave-
master, who hates you!

**You are a people who think you know all about the Bible,
and all about Christianity. You even are foolish enough to be-
lieve that nothing is right but Christianity!

‘You are the planet Earth’s only group of people ignorant of
yourself, ignorant of your own kind, of your true history, ig-
norant of your enemy! You know nothing at all but what your
white slavemaster has chosen to tell you. And he has told you
only that which will benefit himself, and his own kind. He has
taught you, for his benefit, that you are a neutral, shiftless, help-
less so-called ‘Negro.’

‘*I say ‘so-called’ because you are not a ‘Negro.’ There is no
such thing as a race of ‘Negroes.’ You are members of the
Asiatic nation, from the tribe of Shabazz! ‘Negro’ is a false label

BLACK MUSLIMS 259

forced on you by your slavemaster! He has been pushing things
onto you and me and our kind ever since he brought the first
slave shipload of us black people here—’’

When Mr. Muhammad paused, the Muslims before him cried
out, ‘‘Little Lamb!’’ ... ‘‘All praise is due to Allah!”’...
‘*Teach, Messenger!’’ He would continue.

‘‘The ignorance we of the black race here in America have,
and the self-hatred we have, they are fine examples of what the
white slavemaster has seen fit to teach to us. Do we show the
plain common sense, like every other people on this planet Earth,
to unite among ourselves? No! We are humbling ourselves,
sitting-in, and begging-in, trying to unite with the slavemaster!
I don’t seem able to imagine any more ridiculous sight. A thou-
sand ways every day, the white man is telling you ‘You can’t
live here, you can’t enter here, you can’t eat here, drink here,
walk here, work here, you can’t ride here, you can’t play here,
you can’t study here.’ Haven’t we yet seen enough to see that
he has no plan to unite with you?

‘*You have tilled his fields! Cooked his food! Washed his
clothes! You have cared for his wife and children when he was
away. In many cases, you have even suckled him at your breast!
You have been far and away better Christians than this slave-
master who taught you his Christianity!

‘*You have sweated blood to help him build a country so rich
that he can today afford to give away millions—even to his en-
emies! And when those enemies have gotten enough from him
to then be able to attack him, you have been his brave soldiers,
dying for him. And you have been always his most faithful
servant during the so-called ‘peaceful’ times—

‘‘And, still, this Christian American white man has not got it
in him to find the human decency, and enough sense of justice,
to recognize us, and accept us, the black people who have done
so much for him, as fellow human beings!’’

““YAH, Man!’’. . . “‘Um-huh!’’ ‘‘Teach, Messenger!’’. . .
“Yah!"’... “Tell ’em!’’ . . . “‘You right!’ . . . ‘Take your
time up there, little Messenger!’’ . . . ‘Oh, yes!”’

Others besides the Muslims would be shouting now. We Mus-
lims were less extroverted than Christian Negroes. It would
sound now like an old-fashioned camp meeting.

‘*So let us, the black people, separate ourselves from this

260 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

white man slavemaster, who despises us so much! You are out
here begging him for some so-called ‘integration!’ But what is
this slavemaster white, rapist, going about saying! He is saying
he won’t integrate because black blood will mongrelize his race!
He says that—and look at us! Turn around in your seats and look
at each other! This slavemaster white man already has ‘inte-
grated’ us until you can hardly find among us today any more
than a very few who are the black color of our foreparents!”’

‘*God-a-mighty, the man’s right!’’ ... ‘‘Teach, Messen-
ger—’’ ‘‘Hear him! Hear him!”’

‘*He has left such a little black in us,’’ Mr. Muhammad would
go on, ‘‘that now he despises us so bad—meaning he despises
himself, for what he has done to us—that he tells us that legally
if we have got one drop of black blood in us, that means you
are all-black as far as his laws are concerned! Well, if that’s all
we’ve got left, we want to reclaim that one drop!”’

Mr. Muhammad’s frail strength could be seen to be waning.
But he would teach on:

‘*So let us separate from this white man, and for the same
reason he says—in time to save ourselves from any more ‘inte-
gration!’

‘‘Why shouldn’t this white man who likes to think and call
himself so good, and so generous, this white man who finances
even his enemies—why shouldn't he subsidize a separate state,
a separate territory, for we black people who have been such
faithful slaves and servants? A separate territory on which we
can lift ourselves out of these white man’s slums for us, and his
breadlines for us. And even for those he is complaining that we
cost him too much! We can do something for ourselves! We
never have done what we could—because we have been brain-
washed so well by the slavemaster white man that we must come
to him, begging him, for everything we want, and need—’’

After perhaps ninety minutes, behind Mr. Muhammad, every
minister would have to restrain himself from bolting up to his
side, to urge him that it was enough. He would be pressing his
hands tightly against the edges of the speaker’s stand, to support
himself.

“We black people don’t know what we can do. You never
can know what anything can do—until it is set free, to act by
itself! If you have a cat in your house that you pamper and pet,

BLACK MUSLIMS 261

you have to free that cat, set it on its own, in the woods, before
you can see that the cat had it in him to shelter and feed itself!

‘“We, the black people here in America, we never have been
free to find out what we really can do! We have knowledge and
experience to pool to do for ourselves! All of our lives we have
farmed—we can grow our own food. We can set up factories to
manufacture our own necessities! We can build other kinds of
businesses, to establish trade, and commerce—and become in-
dependent, as other civilized people are—

‘We can throw off our brainwashing, and our self-hate, and
live as brothers together. . .

**., . some land of our own! . . . Something for ourselves!
. . . leave this white slavemaster to himself... .”’

Mr. Muhammad always stopped abruptly when he was unable
to speak any longer.

The standing ovation, a solid wall of sound, would go on
unabating.

Standing up there, flailing my arms, finally I could quiet the
audiences as Fruit of Islam ushers began to pass along the seat-
ing rows the large, waxed paper buckets we used to take up the
collection. I would speak.

‘“*You know, from what you have just heard, that no white
money finances The Honorable Elijah Muhammad and his pro-
gram—to ‘advise’ him and ‘contain’ him! Mr. Muhammad’s
program, and his followers, are not ‘integrated.’ Mr. Muham-
mad’s program and organization are all-black!

‘We are the only black organization that only black people
support! These so-called ‘Negro progress’ organizations—Why,
they insult your intelligence, claiming they are fighting in your
behalf, to get you the equal nghts you are asking for. . . claim-
ing they are fighting the white man who refuses to give you your
rights. Why, the white man supports those organizations! If you
belong, you pay your two, or three, or five dollars a year—but
who gives those organizations those two, and three, and five
thousand dollar donations? The white man! He feeds those or-
ganizations! So he controls those organizations! He advises
them—so he contains them! Use your common sense—aren’t
you going to advise and control and contain anyone that you
support, like your child?

‘The white man would love to support Mr. Elijah Muham-

262 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

mad. Because if Mr. Muhammad had to rely on his support, he
could advise Mr. Muhammad. My black brothers and sisters, it
is only because your money, black money, supports Mr. Mu-
hammad, that he can hold these all-black meetings from city to
city, telling us black men the truth! That’s why we are asking
for your all-black support!”’

Nearly all bills—and far from all one-dollar bills, either, filled
the waxed buckets. The buckets were swiftly emptied, then re-
filled, as the Fruit of Islam ushers covered the entire audience.

The audience atmosphere was almost as if the people had
gone limp. The collections always covered the rally expenses,
and anything beyond that helped to continue building the Nation
of Islam.

After several big rallies, Mr. Muhammad directed that we
would admit the white press. Fruit of Islam men thoroughly
searched them, as everyone else was searched—their notebooks,
their cameras, camera cases, and whatever else they carried.
Later, Mr. Muhammad said that any whites who wanted to hear
the truth could attend our public rallies, until a small separate
section for whites was filled.

Most whites who came were students and scholars. I would
watch their congealed and reddened faces staring up at Mr. Mu-
hammad. ‘*The white man knows that his acts have been those
of a devil!’’ I would watch also the faces of the professional
black men, the so-called intellectuals who attacked us. They
possessed the academic know-how, they possessed the technical
and the scientific skills that could help to lead their mass of poor,
black brothers out of our condition. But all these intellectual and
professional black men could seem to think of was humbling
themselves, and begging, trying to ‘“integrate’’ with the so-called
‘‘liberal’’ white man who was telling them, ‘‘In time . . . ev-
erything’s going to work out one day . . . just wait and have
patience.’’ These intellectual and professional Negroes couldn’t
use what they knew for the benefit of their own black kind sim-
ply because even among themselves they were disunited. United
among themselves, united with their own kind, they could have
benefited black people all over the world!

I would watch the faces of those intellectual and professional
Negroes growing grave, and set—as the truth hit home to them.

We were watched. Our telephones were tapped. Still right

BLACK MUSLIMS 263

today, on my home telephone, if I said, ‘‘I’m going to bomb
the Empire State Building,’’ I guarantee you in five minutes it
would be surrounded. When I was speaking publicly sometimes
I’d guess which were F.B.I. faces in the audience, or other types
of agents. Both the police and the F.B.I. intently and persistently
visited and questioned us. “‘I do not fear them,’’ Mr. Muham-
mad said. ‘*I have all that I need—the truth.’’

Many a night, I drifted off to sleep, filled with wonder at how
the two-edged-sword teachings so hurt, confused, concerned,
and upset the government full of men trained highly in all of the
modern sciences. I felt that it never could have been unless The
Most Learned One, Allah Himself, had given the little fourth-
grade-trained Messenger something.

Black agents were sent to infiltrate us. But the white man’s
‘‘secret’’ spy often proved, first of all, a black man. I can’t say
all of them, of course, there’s no way to know—but some of
them, after joining us, and hearing, seeing and feeling the truth
for every black man, revealed their roles to us. Some resigned
from the white man’s agencies and came to work in the Nation
of Islam. A few kept their jobs to counterspy, telling us the white
man’s statements and plans about our Nation. This was how we
learned that after wanting to know what happened within our
Temples, the white law agencies’ second major concern was the
thing that I believe still ranks today as a big worry among Amer-
ica’s penologists: the steadily increasing rate at which black
convicts embrace Islam.

Generally, while still in prison, our convict-converts precon-
ditioned themselves to meet our Nation’s moral laws. As it had
happened with me, when they left prison, they entered a Temple
fully qualified to become registered Muslims. In fact, convict-
converts usually were better prepared than were numerous pro-
spective Muslims who never had been inside a prison.

We were not nearly so easy to enter as a Christian church.
One did not merely declare himself a follower of Mr. Muham-
mad, then continue leading the same old, sinful, immoral life.
The Muslim first had to change his physical and moral self to
meet our strict rules. To remain a Muslim he had to maintain
those rules.

Few temple meetings were held, for instance, without the

264 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

minister looking down upon some freshly shaved bald domes of
new Muslim brothers in the audience. They had just banished
from their lives forever that phony, lye-conked, metallic-looking
hair, or “‘the process,’’ as some call it these days. It grieves me
that I don’t care where you go, you see this symbol of ignorance
and self-hate on so many Negroes’ heads. I know it’s bound to
hurt the feelings of some of my good conked non-Muslim
friends—but if you study closely any conked or “‘processed’’
Negro, you usually find he is an ignorant Negro. Whatever
‘‘show’’ or ‘‘front’’ he affects, his hair lye-cooked to be ‘‘white-
looking’’ fairly shouts to everyone who looks at his head, “‘I’m
ashamed to be a Negro.’’ He will discover, just as I did, that he
will be much-improved mentally whenever he discovers enough
black self-pride to have that mess clipped off, and then wear the
natural hair that God gives black men to wear.

No Muslim smokes—that was another of our rules. Some pro-
spective Muslims found it more difficult to quit tobacco than
others found quitting the dope habit. But black men and women
quit more easily when we got them to consider seriously how
the white man’s government cared less about the public’s health
than about continuing the tobacco industry’s billions in tax rev-
enue. ‘“What does a serviceman pay for a carton of cigarettes?’”’
a prospective Muslim convert would be asked. It helped him to
see that every regularly priced carton he bought meant that the
white man’s government took around two dollars of a black
man’s hard-earned money for taxes, not for tobacco.

You may have read somewhere—a lot has been wnitten con-
ceming it—about the Nation of Islam’s phenomenal record of
dope-addiction cures of longtime junkies. In fact, the New York
Times carried a story about how some of the social agencies
have asked representatives of the Muslim program for clinical
suggestions.

The Muslim program began with recognizing that color and
addiction have a distinct connection. It is no accident that in the
entire Western Hemisphere, the greatest localized concentration
of addicts is in Harlem.

Our cure program’s first major ingredient was the painfully
patient work of Muslims who previously were junkies them-
selves.

In the ghetto’s dope jungle, the Muslim ex-junkies would fish

BLACK MUSLIMS 265

out addicts who knew them back in those days. Then with an
agonizing patience that might span anywhere from a few months
to a year, our ex-junkie Muslims would conduct the addicts
through the Muslim six-point therapeutic process.

The addict first was brought to admit to himself that he was
an addict. Secondly, he was taught why he used narcotics. Third,
he was shown that there was a way to stop addiction. Fourth,
the addict’s shattered self-image, and ego, were built up until
the addict realized that he had, within, the self-power to end his
addiction. Fifth, the addict voluntarily underwent a cold turkey
break with drugs. Sixth, finally cured, now an ex-addict com-
pletes the cycle by ‘‘fishing’’ up other addicts whom he knows,
and supervising their salvaging.

This sixth stage always instantly eliminated what so often
defeats the average social agencies—the characteristic addict’s
hostility and suspicion. The addict who is ‘‘fished’’ up knew
personally that the Muslim approaching him very recently had
the same fifteen to thirty dollar a day habit. The Muslim may
be this addict’s buddy; they had plied the same dope jungle.
They even may have been thieves together. The addict had seen
the Muslim drifting off to sleep leaning against a building, or
stepping as high over a matchstick as if it were a dog. And the
Muslim, approaching the addict, uses the same old junkie jungle
language.

Like the alcoholic, the junkie can never start to cure himself
until he recognizes and accepts his true condition. The Muslim
sticks like a leech, drumming at his old junkie buddy, ‘‘You’re
hooked, man!’’ It might take months before the addict comes to
grips with this. The curative program is never really underway
until this happens.

The next cure-phase is the addict’s realization of why he takes
dope. Still working on his man, right in the old jungle locale,
in dives that you wouldn’t believe existed, the Muslim often
collects audiences of a dozen junkies. They listen only because
they know the clean-cut proud Muslim had earlier been like
them.

Every addict takes junk to escape something, the Muslim ex-
plains. He explains that most black junkies really are trying to
narcotize themselves against being a black man in the white
man’s America. But, actually, the Muslim says, the black man

266 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

taking dope is only helping the white man to ‘‘prove’’ that the
black man is nothing.

The Muslim talks confidentially, and straight. ‘‘Daddy, you
know I know how you feel. Wasn’t I right out here with you?
Scratching like a monkey, smelling all bad, living mad, hungry,
stealing and mining and hiding from Whitey. Man, what’s a
black man buying Whitey’s dope for but to make Whitey richer—
killing yourself!’

The Muslim can tell when his quarry is ready to be shown
that the way for him to quit dope is through joining the Nation
of Islam. The addict is brought into the local Muslim restaurant,
he may occasionally be exposed to some other social situa-
tions—among proud, clean Muslims who show each other mu-
tual affection and respect instead of the familiar hostility of the
ghetto streets. For the first time in years, the addict hears himself
called, genuinely, ‘“‘Brother,’’ ‘‘Sir’’ and ‘‘Mr.’’ No one cares
about his past. His addiction may casually be mentioned, but if
SO, it is spoken of as merely an especially tough challenge that
he must face. Everyone whom this addict meets is confident that
he will kick his habit.

As the addict’s new image of himself builds, inevitably he
begins thinking that he can break the habit. For the first time he
is feeling the effects of black self-pride.

That’s a powerful combination for a man who has been ex-
isting in the mud of society. In fact, once he is motivated no
one can change more completely than the man who has been at
the bottom. I call myself the best example of that.

Finally, vitally, this addict will decide for himself that he
wants to go on cold turkey. This means to endure the physical
agonies of abruptly quitting dope.

When this time comes, ex-addict Muslims will arrange to
spend the necessary days in around-the-clock shifts, attending
the addict who intends to purge himself, on the way to becoming
a Muslim.

When the addict’s withdrawal sets in, and he is screaming,
cursing, and begging, ‘‘Just one shot, man!’’ the Muslims are
night there talking junkie jargon to him. ‘‘Baby, knock that mon-
key off your back! Kick that habit! Kick Whitey off your back!’’
The addict, writhing in pain, his nose and eyes running, is pour-
ing sweat from head to foot. He’s trying to knock his head

BLACK MUSLIMS 267

against the wall, flailing his arms, trying to fight his attendants,
he is vomiting, suffering diarrhea. ‘‘Don’t hold nothing back!
Let Whitey go, baby! You’re going to stand tall, man! I can see
you now in the Fruit of Islam!”’

When the awful ordeal is ended, when the grip of dope is
broken, the Muslims comfort the weak ex-addict, feeding him
soups and broths, to get him on his feet again. He will never
forget these brothers who stood by him during this time. He will
never forget that it was the Nation of Islam’s program which
rescued him from the special hell of dope. And that black brother
(or the sister, whom Muslim sisters attend) rarely ever will re-
turn to the use of narcotics. Instead, the ex-addict when he is
proud, clean, renewed, can scarcely wait to hit the same junkie
jungle he was in, to ‘‘fish’’ out some buddy and salvage him!

If some white man, or ‘‘approved’’ black man, created a nar-
cotics cure program as successful as the one conducted under
the aegis of the Muslims, why, there would be government sub-
sidy, and praise and spotlights, and headlines. But we were
attacked instead. Why shouldn’t the Muslims be subsidized to
save millions of dollars a year for the government and the cities?
I don’t know what addicts’ crimes cost nationally, but it is said
to be billions a year in New York City. An estimated $12 million
a year is lost to thieves in Harlem alone.

An addict doesn’t work to supply his habit, which may cost
anywhere from ten to fifty dollars a day. How could he earn that
much? No! The addict steals, he hustles in other ways; he preys
upon other human beings like a hawk or a vulture—as I did.
Very likely, he is a school drop-out, the same as I was, an Army
reject, psychologically unsuited to a job even if he was offered
one, the same as I was.

Women addicts “‘boost’’ (shoplift), or they prostitute them-
selves. Muslim sisters talk hard to black prostitutes who are
struggling to quit using dope in order to qualify morally to be-
come registered Muslims. ‘‘You are helping the white man to
regard your body as a garbage can—”’

Numerous ‘‘exposés’’ of the Nation of Islam have implied
that Mr. Muhammad’s followers were chiefly ex-cons and junk-
ies. In the early years, yes, the converts from society’s lowest
levels were a sizable part of the Nation’s broad base of mem-
bership. Always Mr. Muhammad instructed us, ‘‘Go after the

268 |THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

black man in the mud.’’ Often, he said, those converted made
the best Muslims.

But gradually we recruited other black people—the ‘‘good
Christians’’ whom we ‘‘fished’’ from their churches. Then, an
increase began in the membership percentage of educated and
trained Negroes. For each rally attracted to the local temple a
few more of that particular city’s so-called ‘‘middle-class’’ Ne-
groes, the type who previously had scoffed at us ‘“Black Mus-
lims’’ as ‘‘demagogues,”’ and ‘‘hate-teachers,’’ ““black racists’”’
and all the rest of the names. The Muslim truths—listened to,
thought about—reaped for us a growing quota of young black
men and women. For those with training and talents, the Nation
of Islam had plenty of positions where those abilities were
needed.

There were some registered Muslims who would never reveal
their membership, except to other Muslims, because of their
positions in the white man’s world. There were, I know, a few,
who because of their positions were known only to their minis-
ters and to Mr. Elijah Muhammad.

In 1961, our Nation flourished. Our newspaper Muhammad
Speaks’ full back page carried an architect’s drawing of a $20
million Islamic Center proposed to be built in Chicago. Every
Muslim was making personal financial contribution toward the
Center. It would include a beautiful mosque, school, library,
and hospital, and a museum documenting the black man’s glo-
rious history.

Mr. Muhammad visited the Muslim countries, and upon his
return he directed that we would begin calling our temples
*“*mosques.”’

There was a sharp climb now, too, in the number of Muslim-
owned small businesses. Our businesses sought to demonstrate
to the black people what black people could do for themselves—
if they would only unify, trade with each other—exclusively
where possible—and hire each other, and in so doing, keep black
money within the black communities, just as other minorities
did.

Recordings of Mr. Muhammad’s speeches were now regu-
larly being broadcast across America over small radio stations.
In Detroit and Chicago, school-age Muslim children attended

BLACK MUSLIMS 269

our two Universities of Islam—through high school in Chicago,
and through junior high in Detroit. Starting from kindergarten,
they learned of the black man’s glorious history and from the
third grade they studied the black man’s original language, Ar-
abic.

Mr. Muhammad’s eight children now were all deeply in-
volved in key capacities in the Nation of Islam. I took a deep
personal pride in having had something to do with that—at least
in some cases, years before. When Mr. Muhammad had sent
me out in his service as a minister, I began to feel it was a shame
that his children worked as some of them then did for the white
man, in factories, construction work, driving taxis, things like
that. I felt that I should work for Mr. Muhammad’s family as
sincerely as I worked for him. I urged Mr. Muhammad to let
me put on a special drive within our few small mosques, to raise
funds which would enable those of his children working for the
white man to be instead employed within our Nation. Mr. Mu-
hammad agreed, the special fund drive did prove successful,
and his children gradually did begin working for the Nation.
Emanuel, the oldest, today runs the dry-cleaning plant. Sister
Ethel (Muhammad) Sharrieff is the Muslim Sisters’ Supreme
Instructor. (Her husband, Raymond Sharrieff, is Supreme Cap-
tain of the Fruit of Islam.) Sister Lottie Muhammad supervises
the two Universities of Islam. Nathaniel Muhammad assists
Emanuel in the dry-cleaning plant. Herbert Muhammad now
publishes Muhammad Speaks, the Nation’s newspaper that I
began. Elijah Muhammad, Jr., is the Fruit of Islam Assistant
Supreme Captain. Wallace Muhammad was the Philadelphia
Mosque Minister, until finally he was suspended from the Na-
tion along with me—for reasons I will go into. The youngest
child, Akbar Muhammad, the family student, attends the Uni-
versity of Cairo at El-Azhar. Akbar also has broken with his
father.

I believe that it was too strenuous a marathon of long speeches
that Mr. Muhammad made at our big rallies which, abruptly,
badly aggravated his long-bothersome bronchial asthmatic con-
dition.

Just in conversation, Mr. Muhammad would suddenly begin
coughing, and the coughing tempo would increase until it racked
his slight body.

270 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Mr. Muhammad almost doubled up sometimes. Soon, he had
to take to his bed. As hard as he tried not to, as deeply as it
grieved him, he had to cancel several long-scheduled appear-
ances at big-city rallies. Thousands were disappointed to have
to hear me instead, or other poor substitutes for Mr. Muhammad
in person.

Members of the Nation were deeply concerned. Doctors rec-
ommended a dry climate. The Nation bought Mr. Muhammad
a home in Phoenix, Arizona. One of the first times I visited Mr.
Muhammad there, I stepped off a plane into flashing and whir-
ring cameras until I wondered who was behind me. Then I saw
the cameramen’s guns; they were from the Arizona Intelligence
Division.

The wire of our Nation of Islam brought all Muslims the
joyful news that the Arizona climate did vastly relieve the Mes-
senger’s suffering. Since then he has spent most of each year in
Phoenix.

Despite the fact that Mr. Muhammad, convalescing, could no
longer work the daily long hours he had previously worked in
Chicago, he was now more than ever burdened with heavy
decision-making and administrative duties. In every respect, the
Nation was expanded both internally and externally. Mr. Mu-
hammad simply could no longer allot as much time as previously
to considering and deciding which public-speaking, radio, and
television requests he felt I should accept—as well as to some
organizational matters which I had always brought to him for
advice or decision.

Mr. Muhammad evidenced the depth of his trust in me. In
those areas I’ve described, he told me to make the decisions
myself. He said that my guideline should be whatever I felt was
wise—whatever was in the general good interests of our Nation
of Islam.

‘‘Brother Malcolm, I want you to become well known,’’ Mr.
Muhammad told me one day. ‘Because if you are well known,
it will make me better known,’’ he went on.

‘*But, Brother Malcolm, there is something you need to know.
You will grow to be hated when you become well known. Be-
cause usually people get jealous of public figures.’’

Nothing that Mr. Muhammad ever said to me was more pro-
phetic.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ICARUS

The more places I represented Mr. Muhammad on television
and radio, and at colleges and elsewhere, the more letters came
from people who had heard me. I’d say that ninety-five per cent
of the letters were from white people.

Only a few of the letters fell into the ‘“‘Dear Nigger X’’ cat-
egory, or the death-threats. Most of my mail exposed to me the
white man’s two major dreads. The first one was his own private
belief that God wrathfully is going to destroy this civilization.
And the white man’s second most pervading dread was his im-
age of the black man entering the body of the white woman.

An amazing percentage of the white letter-writers agreed en-
tirely with Mr. Muhammad’s analysis of the problem—but not
with his solution. One odd ambivalence was how some letters,
otherwise all but championing Mr. Muhammad, would recoil at
the expression ‘‘white devils.’’ I tried to explain this in subse-
quent speeches:

‘*Unless we call one white man, by name, a ‘devil,’ we are
not speaking of any individual white man. We are speaking
of the collective white man’s historical record. We are speak-
ing of the collective white man’s cruelties, and evils, and greeds,
that have seen him act like a devil toward the non-white man. Any
intelligent, honest, objective person cannot fail to realize that
this white man’s slave trade, and his subsequent devilish ac-
tions are directly responsible for not only the presence of this
black man in America, but also for the condition in which we
find this black man here. You cannot find one black man, J do

271

272 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

not care who he is, who has not been personally damaged in
some way by the devilish acts of the collective white man!”’

Nearly every day, some attack on the “‘Black Muslims’’ would
appear in some newspapers. Increasingly, a focal target was
something that I had said, ‘‘Malcolm X”’ as a ‘“‘demagogue.’’ I
would grow furious reading any harsh attack upon Mr. Muham-
mad. I didn’t care what they said about me.

Those social workers and sociologists—they tried to take me
apart. Especially the black ones, for some reason. Of course, I
knew the reason: the white man signed their paychecks. If I
wasn’t ‘‘polarizing the community,’’ according to this bunch,
I had ‘‘erroneously appraised the racial picture.’’ Or in some
statement, I had ‘‘over-generalized.’’ Or when I had made
some absolutely true point, ‘‘Malcolm X conveniently ma-
nipulated....”’

Once, one of my Mosque Seven Muslim brothers who worked
with teenagers in a well-known Harlem community center
showed me a confidential report. Some black senior social
worker had been given a month off to investigate the ‘Black
Muslims’’ in the Harlem area. Every paragraph sent me back to
the dictionary—I guess that’s why I’ve never forgotten one line
about me. Listen to this: ‘“The dynamic interstices of the Har-
lem sub-culture have been oversimplified and distorted by Mal-
colm X to meet his own needs.”’

Which of us, I wonder, knew more about that Harlem ghetto
‘*sub-culture’’? I, who had hustled for years in those streets, or
that black snob status-symbol-educated social worker?

But that’s not important. What’s important, to my way of
thinking about it, is that among America’s 22 million black
people so relatively few have been lucky enough to attend a
college—and here was one of those who had been lucky. Here
was, to my way of thinking, one of those ‘‘educated’’ Negroes
who never had understood the true intent, or purpose, or appli-
cation of education. Here was one of those stagnant educations,
never used except for parading a lot of big words.

Do you realize this is one of the major reasons why America’s
white man has so easily contained and oppressed America’s
black man? Because until just lately, among the few educated
Negroes scarcely any applied their education, as I am forced to
say the white man does—in searching and creative thinking, to

ICARUS 273

further themselves and their own kind in this competitive, ma-
terialistic, dog-eat-dog white man’s world. For generations, the
so-called ‘‘educated’’ Negroes have ‘‘led’’ their black brothers
by echoing the white man’s thinking—which naturally has been
to the exploitive white man’s advantage.

The white man—give him his due—has an extraordinary in-
telligence, an extraordinary cleverness. His world is full of proof
of it. You can’t name a thing the white man can’t make. You
can hardly name a scientific problem he can’t solve. Here he is
now solving the problems of sending men exploring into outer
space—and returning them safely to earth.

But in the arena of dealing with human beings, the white
man’s working intelligence is hobbled. His intelligence will fail
him altogether if the humans happen to be non-white. The white
man’s emotions superseded his intelligence. He will commit
against non-whites the most incredible spontaneous emotional
acts, so psyche-deep is his ‘‘white superiority’’ complex.

Where was the A-bomb dropped .. . ‘‘to save American
lives’’? Can the white man be so naive as to think the clear
import of this ever will be lost upon the non-white two-thirds of
the earth’s population?

Before that bomb was dropped—right over here in the United
States, what about the one hundred thousand loyal naturalized
and native-born Japanese-American citizens who were herded
into camps, behind barbed wire? But how many German-bom
naturalized Americans were herded behind barbed wire? They
were white!

Historically, the non-white complexion has evoked and ex-
posed the ‘‘devil’’ in the very nature of the white man.

What else but a controlling emotional ‘‘devil’’ so blinded
American white intelligence that it couldn’t foresee that millions
of black slaves, *‘freed,’’ then permitted even limited education,
would one day rise up as a terrifying monster within white
America’s midst?

The white man’s brains that today explore space should have
told the slavemaster that any slave, if he is educated, will no
longer fear his master. History shows that an educated slave
always begins to ask, and next demand, equality with his mas-
ter.

Today, in many ways the black man sees the collective white

274 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

man in America better than that white man can see himself.
And the 22 million blacks realize increasingly that physi-
cally, politically, economically, and even to some degree
socially, the aroused black man can create a turmoil in white
America’s vitals—not to mention America’s international
image.

I had not intended to stray off. I had been telling how in
1963, I was trying to cope with the white newspaper, radio,
and television reporters who were determined to defeat Mr. Mu-
hammad’s teachings.

I developed a mental image of reporters as human ferrets—
steadily sniffing, darting, probing for some way to trick me,
somehow to corner me in our interview exchanges.

Let some civil rights ‘‘leader’” make some statement, dis-
pleasing to the white public power structure, and the reporters,
in an effort to whip him back into line, would try to use me. I'll
give an example. I’d get a question like this: ‘‘Mr. Malcolm X,
you’ve often gone on record as disapproving of the sit-ins and
similar Negro protest actions—what is your opinion of the Mont-
gomery boycott that Dr. King is leading?”’

Now my feeling was that although the civil nghts ‘‘leaders’’
kept attacking us Muslims, still they were black people, still
they were our own kind, and I would be most foolish to let the
white man maneuver me against the civil nghts movement.

When I was asked about the Montgomery boycott, I’d care-
fully review what led up to it. Mrs. Rosa Parks was riding home
on a bus and at some bus stop the white cracker bus driver
ordered Mrs. Parks to get up and give her seat to some white
passenger who had just got on the bus. I’d say, ‘‘Now, just
imagine that! This good, hard-working, Christian-believing black
woman, she’s paid her money, she’s in her seat. Just because
she’s black, she’s asked to get up! I mean, sometimes even for
me it’s hard to believe the white man’s arrogance!”’

Or I might say, ‘‘No one will ever know exactly what emo-
tional ingredient made this relatively trivial incident a fuse for
those Montgomery Negroes. There had been centuries of the
worst kind of outrages against Southern black people—lynchings,
rapings, shootings, beatings! But you know history has been
triggered by trivial-seeming incidents. Once a little nobody In-

ICARUS = 275

dian lawyer was put off a train, and fed up with injustice, he
twisted a knot in the British Lion’s tail. His name was Mahatma
Gandhi!”’

Or I might copy a trick I had seen lawyers use, both in life
and on television. It was a way that lawyers would slip in before
a jury something otherwise inadmissable. (Sometimes I think I
really might have made it as a lawyer, as I once told that eighth-
grade teacher in Mason, Michigan, I wanted to be, when he
advised me to become a carpenter.) I would slide right over the
reporter’s question to drop into his lap a logical-extension hot
potato for him.

‘‘Well, sir, I see the same boycott reasoning for Negroes asked
to join the Army, Navy, and Air Force. Why should we go off
to die somewhere to preserve a so-called ‘democracy’ that gives
a white immigrant of one day more than it gives the black man
with four hundred years of slaving and serving in this country?’’

Whites would prefer fifty local boycotts to having 22 million
Negroes start thinking about what I had just said. I don’t have
to tell you that it never got printed the way I said it. It would be
turned inside out if it got printed at all. And I could detect when
the white reporters had gotten their heads together; they quit
asking me certain questions.

If I had developed a good point, though, I’d bait a hook to
get it said when I went on radio or television. I’d seem to slip
and mention some recent so-called civil rights ‘‘advance.’’ You
know, where some giant industry had hired ten showpiece Ne-
groes; some restaurant chain had begun making more money by
serving Negroes; some Southern university had enrolled a black
freshman without bayonets—like that. When I ‘“‘slipped,’’ the
program host would leap on that bait: ‘‘Ahhh! Indeed, Mr. Mal-
colm X—you can’t deny that’s an advance for your race!”’

I'd jerk the pole then. “‘I can’t turn around without hearing
about some ‘civil rights advance’! White people seem to think
the black man ought to be shouting ‘hallelujah’! Four hundred
years the white man has had his foot-long knife in the black
man’s back—and now the white man starts to wiggle the knife
out, maybe six inches! The black man’s supposed to be grateful ?
Why, if the white man jerked the knife out, it’s still going to
leave a scar!”’

Similarly, just let some mayor or some city council some-

276 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

where boast of having ‘‘no Negro problem.’’ That would get
off the newsroom teletypes and it would soon be jammed night
in my face. I’d say they didn’t need to tell me where this was,
because I knew that all it meant was that relatively very few
Negroes were living there. That’s true the world over, you know.
Take ‘‘democratic’’ England—when 100,000 black West Indi-
ans got there, England stopped the black migration. Finland
welcomed a Negro U.S. Ambassador. Well, let enough Negroes
follow him to Finland! Or in Russia, when Khrushchev was in
power, he threatened to cancel the visas of black African stu-
dents whose anti-discrimination demonstration said to the world,
‘*Russia, too... .”’

The Deep South white press generally blacked me out. But
they front-paged what I felt about Northen white and black
Freedom Riders going South to ‘‘demonstrate.’’ I called it ‘‘ni-
diculous’’; their own Northern ghettoes, right at home, had
enough rats and roaches to kill to keep all of the Freedom Riders
busy. I said that ultra-liberal New York had more integration
problems than Mississippi. If the Northern Freedom Riders
wanted more to do, they could work on the roots of such ghetto
evils as the little children out in the streets at midnight, with
apartment keys on strings around their necks to let themselves
in, and their mothers and fathers drunk, drug addicts, thieves,
prostitutes. Or the Northern Freedom Riders could light some
fires under Northern city halls, unions, and major industries to
give more jobs to Negroes to remove so many of them from the
relief and welfare rolls, which created laziness, and which de-
teriorated the ghettoes into steadily worse places for humans to
live. It was all—it is all—the absolute truth; but what did I want
to say it for? Snakes couldn’t have turned on me faster than the
liberal.

Yes, I will pull off that liberal’s halo that he spends such
efforts cultivating! The North’s liberals have been for so Jong
pointing accusing fingers at the South and getting away with it
that they have fits when they are exposed as the world’s worst
hypocrites.

I believe my own life mirrors this hypocrisy. I know nothing
about the South. I am a creation of the Northern white man and
of his hypocritical attitude toward the Negro.

ICARUS 277

The white Southerner was always given his due by Mr. Mu-
hammad. The white Southerner, you can say one thing—he is
honest. He bares his teeth to the black man; he tells the black
man, to his face, that Southern whites never will accept phony
‘‘integration.’’ The Southern white goes further, to tell the black
man that he means to fight him every inch of the way—against
even the so-called ‘‘tokenism.’’ The advantage of this is the
Southern black man never has been under any illusions about
the opposition he is dealing with.

You can say for many Southern white people that, individu-
ally, they have been paternalistically helpful to many individual
Negroes. But the Northern white man, he grins with his teeth,
and his mouth has always been full of tricks and lies of ‘“equal-
ity’’ and ‘‘integration.’’ When one day all over America, a black
hand touched the white man’s shoulder, and the white man
turned, and there stood the Negro saying ‘‘Me, too. . .”’ why,
that Northern liberal shrank from that black man with as much
guilt and dread as any Southern white man.

Actually, America’s most dangerous and threatening black
man is the one who has been kept sealed up by the Northerner
in the black ghettoes—the Northern white power structure’s sys-
tem to keep talking democracy while keeping the black man out
of sight somewhere, around the comer.

The word ‘‘integration’’ was invented by a Northern liberal.
The word has no real meaning. I ask you: in the racial sense in
which it’s used so much today, whatever “‘integration’’ is sup-
posed to mean, can it precisely be defined? The truth is that
‘‘integration’’ is an image, it’s a foxy Northern liberal’s smoke-
screen that confuses the true wants of the American black
man. Here in these fifty racist and neo-racist states of North
America, this word ‘‘integration’’ has millions of white people
confused, and angry, believing wrongly that the black masses
want to live mixed up with the white man. That is the case only
with the relative handful of these ‘‘integration’’-mad Negroes.

I’m talking about these ‘‘token-integrated’’ Negroes who flee
from their poor, downtrodden black brothers—from their own
self-hate, which is what they’re really trying to escape. I’m talk-
ing about these Negroes you will see who can’t get enough of
nuzzling up to the white man. These ‘‘chosen few’’ Negroes are

278 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

more white-minded, more anti-black, than even the white man
iS.

Human rights! Respect as human beings! That’s what Amer-
ica’s black masses want. That’s the true problem. The black
masses want not to be shrunk from as though they are plague-
ridden. They want not to be walled up in slums, in the ghettoes,
like animals. They want to live in an open, free society where
they can walk with their heads up, like men, and women!

Few white people realize that many black people today dislike
and avoid spending any more time than they must around white
people. This ‘‘integration’’ image, as it is popularly interpreted,
has millions of vain, self-exalted white people convinced that
black people want to sleep in bed with them—and that’s a lie!
Or you can’t tell the average white man that the Negro man’s
prime desire isn’t to have a white woman—another lie! Like a
black brother recently observed to me, ““Look, you ever smell
one of them wet?’’

The black masses prefer the company of their own kind. Why,
even these fancy, bourgeois Negroes—when they get back home
from the fancy ‘‘integrated’’ cocktail parties, what do they do
but kick off their shoes and talk about those white liberals they
just left as if the liberals were dogs. And the white liberals prob-
ably do the very same thing. I can’t be sure about the whites, I
am never around them in private—but the bourgeois Negroes
know I’m not lying.

I’m telling it like it is! You never have to worry about me
biting my tongue if something I know as truth is on my mind.
Raw, naked truth exchanged between the black man and the
white man is what a whole lot more of is needed in this coun-
try—to clear the air of the racial mirages, clichés, and lies that
this country’s very atmosphere has been filled with for four hun-
dred years.

In many communities, especially small communities, white
people have created a benevolent image of themselves as having
had so much ‘‘good-will toward our Negroes,’’ every time any
‘‘local Negro’’ begins suddenly letting the local whites know
the truth—that the black people are sick of being hind-tit, second-
class, disfranchised, that’s when you hear, uttered so sadly,
‘Unfortunately now because of this, our whites of good-will
are Starting to turn against the Negroes. . . . It’s so regrettable

ICARUS 279

. . . progress was being made. . . but now our communications
between the races have broken down!”’

What are they talking about? There never was any commu-
nication. Until after World War II, there wasn’t a single com-
munity in the entire United States where the white man heard
from any local Negro “‘leaders’’ the truth of what Negroes felt
about the conditions that the white community imposed upon
Negroes.

You need some proof? Well, then, why was it that when
Negroes did start revolting across America, virtually all of white
America was caught up in surprise and even shock? I would hate
to be general of an army as badly informed as the American
white man has been about the Negro in this country.

This is the situation which permitted Negro combustion to
slowly build up to the revolution-point, without the white man
realizing it. All over America, the local Negro ‘‘leader,’’ in
order to survive as a ‘‘leader,’’ kept reassuring the local white
man, in effect, ‘‘Everything’s all right, everything’s nght in
hand, boss!’’ When the “‘leader’’ wanted a little something for
his people: ‘‘Er, boss, some of the people talking about we sure
need a better school, boss.’’ And if the local Negroes hadn’t
been causing any ‘‘trouble,’’ the ‘‘benevolent’’ white man might
nod and give them a school, or some jobs.

The white men belonging to the power structures in thousands
of communities across America know that I’m right! They know
that I am describing what has been the true pattern of ‘‘com-
munications’’ between the “‘local whites of good-will’’ and the
local Negroes. It has been a pattern created by domineering,
ego-ridden whites. Its characteristic design permitted the white
man to feel ‘‘noble’’ about throwing crumbs to the black man,
instead of feeling guilty about the local community’s system of
cruelly exploiting Negroes.

But I want to tell you something. This pattern, this ‘‘system’’
that the white man created, of teaching Negroes to hide the truth
from him behind a fagade of grinning, ‘‘yessir-bossing,’’ foot-
shuffling and head-scratching—that system has done the Amer-
ican white man more harm than an invading army would do to
him.

Why do I say this? Because all this has steadily helped this
American white man to build up, deep in his psyche, absolute

280 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

conviction that he is “‘superior.’’ In how many, many commu-
nities have, thus, white men who didn’t finish high school re-
garded condescendingly university-educated local Negro
‘‘leaders,’’ principals of schools, teachers, doctors, other
professionals?

The white man’s system has been imposed upon non-white
peoples all over the world. This is exactly the reason why wher-
ever people who are anything but white live in this world today,
the white man’s governments are finding themselves in deeper
and deeper trouble and peril.

Let’s just face truth. Facts! Whether or not the white man of
the world is able to face truth, and facts, about the true reasons
for his troubles—that’s what essentially will determine whether
or not he will now survive.

Today we are seeing this revolution of the non-white peoples,
who just a few years ago would have frozen in horror if the
mighty white nations so much as lifted an eyebrow. What it is,
simply, is that black and brown and red and yellow peoples
have, after hundreds of years of exploitation and imposed ‘‘in-
feriority’’ and general misuse, become, finally, do-or-die sick
and tired of the white man’s heel on their necks.

How can the white American government figure on selling
‘“‘democracy’’ and ‘‘brotherhood’’ to non-white peoples—if they
read and hear every day what’s going on right here in America,
and see the better-than-a-thousand-words photographs of the
American white man denying ‘‘democracy’’ and ‘“‘brother-
hood’’ even to America’s native-born non-whites? The world’s
non-whites know how this Negro here has loved the American
white man, and slaved for him, tended to him, nursed him. This
Negro has jumped into uniform and gone off and died when this
America was attacked by enemies both white and non-white.
Such a faithful, loyal non-white as this—and still America bombs
him, and sets dogs on him, and tums fire hoses on him, and jails
him by the thousands, and beats him bloody, and inflicts upon him
all manner of other crimes.

Of course these things, known and refreshed every day for
the rest of the world’s non-whites, are a vital factor in these
burnings of ambassadors’ limousines, these stonings, defilings,
and wreckings of embassies and legations, these shouts of

ICARUS 281

‘‘White man, go home!’’ these attacks on white Christian mis-
sionaries, and these bombings and tearing down of flags.

Is it clear why I have said that the American white man’s
malignant superiority complex has done him more harm than an
invading army?

The American black man should be focusing his every effort
toward building his own businesses, and decent homes for him-
self. As other ethnic groups have done, let the black people,
wherever possible, however possible, patronize their own kind,
hire their own kind, and start in those ways to build up the black
race’s ability to do for itself. That’s the only way the American
black man is ever going to get respect. One thing the white man
never can give the black man is self-respect! The black man
never can become independent and recognized as a human being
who is truly equal with other human beings until he has what
they have, and until he is doing for himself what others are doing
for themselves.

The black man in the ghettoes, for instance, has to start self-
correcting his own material, moral, and spiritual defects and
evils. The black man needs to start his own program to get rid
of drunkenness, drug addiction, prostitution. The black man in
America has to lift up his own sense of values.

Only a few thousands of Negroes, relatively a very tiny num-
ber, are taking any part in “‘integration.’’ Here, again, it is those
few bourgeois Negroes, rushing to throw away their little money
in the white man’s luxury hotels, his swanky nightclubs, and
big, fine, exclusive restaurants. The white people patronizing
those places can afford it. But these Negroes you see in those
places can’t afford it, certainly most of them can’t. Why, what
does some Negro one installment payment away from disaster
look like somewhere downtown out to dine, grinning at some
headwaiter who has more money than the Negro? Those bour-
geois Negroes out draping big tablecloth-sized napkins over their
knees and ordering quail under glass and stewed snails—why,
Negroes don’t even like snails! What they’re doing is proving
they’re integrated.

If you want to get right down to the real outcome of this so-
called ‘‘integration,’’ what you’ve got to arrive at is intermar-
riage.

282 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I’m right with the Southern white man who believes that you
can’t have so-called ‘‘integration,’’ at least not for long, without
intermarriage increasing. And what good is this for anyone?
Let’s again face reality. In a world as color-hostile as this, man
or woman, black or white, what do they want with a mate of
the other race?

Certainly white people have served enough notice of their
hostility to any blacks in their families and neighborhoods. And
the way most Negroes feel today, a mixed couple probably finds
that black families, black communities, are even more hostile
than the white ones. So what’s bound to face ‘‘integrated’’ mar-
rlages, except being unwelcomed, unwanted, ‘‘misfits’’ in
whichever world they try to live in? What we arrive at is that
‘‘integration,’’ socially, is no good for either side. ‘‘Integra-
tion,’’ ultimately, would destroy the white race. . . and destroy
the black race.

The white man’s ‘‘integrating’’ with black women has already
changed the complexion and characteristics of the black race in
America. What’s been proved by the ‘‘blacks’’ whose complex-
ions are ‘‘whiter’’ than many ‘‘white’’ people? I’m told that
there are in America today between two and five million ‘‘white
Negroes,’’ who are ‘‘passing’’ in white society. Imagine their
torture! Living in constant fear that some black person they’ve
known might meet and expose them. Imagine every day living
a lie. Imagine hearing their own white husbands, their own white
wives, even their own white children, talking about ‘‘those Ne-
groes.”’

I would doubt if anyone in America has heard Negroes more
bitter against the white man than some of those I have heard.
But I will tell you that, without any question, the most bitter
anti-white diatribes that I have ever heard have come from
*“passing’’ Negroes, living as whites, among whites, exposed
every day to what white people say among themselves regarding
Negroes—things that a recognized Negro never would hear.
Why, if there was a racial showdown, these Negroes ‘“‘passing’”’
within white circles would become the black side’s most valu-
able ‘‘spy’’ and ally.

Europe’s “‘brown babies,’’ now young men and women who
are starting to marry, and produce families of their own... .

ICARUS 283

have their experiences throughout their lives, scarred as racial
freaks, proved anything positive for ‘‘integration’’?

‘Integration’ is called ‘‘assimilation’’ if white ethnic groups
alone are involved: it’s fought against tooth and nail by those
who want their heritage preserved. Look at how the Insh threw
the English out of Ireland. The Irish knew the English would
engulf them. Look at the French-Canadians, fanatically fighting
to keep their identity.

In fact, history’s most tragic result of a mixed, therefore di-
luted and weakened, ethnic identity has been experienced by a
white ethnic group—the Jew in Germany.

He had made greater contributions to Germany than Germans
themselves had. Jews had won over half of Germany’s Nobel
Prizes. Every culture in Germany was led by the Jew; he pub-
lished the greatest newspaper. Jews were the greatest artists, the
greatest poets, composers, stage directors. But those Jews made
a fatal mistake—assimilating.

From World War I to Hitler’s rise, the Jews in Germany had
been increasingly intermarrying. Many changed their names and
many took other religions. Their own Jewish religion, their own
rich Jewish ethnic and cultural roots, they anesthetized, and cut
off . . . until they began thinking of themselves as ‘‘Germans.’’

And the next thing they knew, there was Hitler, rising to
power from the beer halls—with his emotional ‘‘Aryan master
race’’ theory. And right at hand for a scapegoat was the self-
weakened, self-deluded ‘‘German’’ Jew.

Most mysterious is how did those Jews—with all of their bril-
liant minds, with all of their power in every aspect of Germany’s
affairs—how did those Jews stand almost as if mesmerized,
watching something which did not spring upon them overnight,
but which was gradually developed—a monstrous plan for their
own murder.

Their self-brainwashing had been so complete that not long
after, in the gas chambers, a lot of them were still gasping, ‘‘It
can't be true!”’

If Hitler had conquered the world, as he meant to—that is a
shuddery thought for every Jew alive today.

The Jew never will forget that lesson. Jewish intelligence eyes
watch every neo-Nazi organization. Right after the war, the
Jews’ Haganah mediating body stepped up the longtime nego-

284 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

tiations with the British. But this time, the Stern gang was shoot-
ing the British. And this time the British acquiesced and helped
them to wrest Palestine away from the Arabs, the nghtful own-
ers, and then the Jews set up Israel, their own country—the one
thing that every race of man in the world respects, and under-
stands.

Not long ago, the black man in America was fed a dose of
another form of the weakening, lulling and deluding effects of
so-called ‘‘integration.’’ It was that ‘‘Farce on Washington,’’ I
call it.

The idea of a mass of blacks marching on Washington was
originally the brainchild of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car
Porters’ A. Philip Randolph. For twenty or more years the March
on Washington idea had floated around among Negroes. And,
spontaneously, suddenly now, that idea caught on.

Overalled rural Southern Negroes, small town Negroes,
Northern ghetto Negroes, even thousands of previously Uncle
Tom Negroes began talking ‘‘March!’’

Nothing since Joe Louis had so coalesced the masses of Ne-
groes. Groups of Negroes were talking of getting to Washington
any way they could—in nickety old cars, on buses, hitch-hiking—
walking, even, if they had to. They envisioned thousands of
black brothers converging together upon Washington—to lie
down in the streets, On airport runways, on government lawns—
demanding of the Congress and the White House some concrete
civil rights action.

This was a national bitterness; militant, unorganized, and
leaderless. Predominantly, it was young Negroes, defiant of
whatever might be the consequences, sick and tired of the black
man’s neck under the white man’s heel.

The white man had plenty of good reasons for nervous worry.
The nght spark—some unpredictable emotional chemistry—
could set off a black uprising. The government knew that thou-
sands of milling, angry blacks not only could completely disrupt
Washington—but they could erupt in Washington.

The White House speedily invited in the major civil rights
Negro ‘‘leaders.’’ They were asked to stop the planned March.
They truthfully said they hadn’t begun it, they had no control

[CARUS 285

over it—the idea was national, spontaneous, unorganized, and
leaderless. In other words, it was a black powder keg.

Any student of how ‘‘integration’’ can weaken the black man’s
movement was about to observe a master lesson.

The White House, with a fanfare of international publicity,
‘‘approved,’’ ‘‘endorsed,’’ and ‘‘welcomed’’ a March on
Washington. The big civil nghts organizations right at this time
had been publicly squabbling about donations. The New York
Times had broken the story. The N.A.A.C.P. had charged that
other agencies’ demonstrations, highly publicized, had attracted
a major part of the civil rights donations—while the N.A.A.C.P.
got left holding the bag, supplying costly bail and legal talent
for the other organizations’ jailed demonstrators.

It was like a movie. The next scene was the ‘‘big six’’ civil
rights Negro ‘‘leaders’’ meeting in New York City with the
white head of a big philanthropic agency. They were told that
their money-wrangling in public was damaging their image. And
a reported $800,000 was donated to a United Civil Rights Lead-
ership council that was quickly organized by the “‘big six.”’

Now, what had instantly achieved black unity? The white
man’s money. What string was attached to the money? Advice.
Not only was there this donation, but another comparable sum
was promised, for sometime later on, after the March. . . ob-
viously if all went well.

The original ‘‘angry’’ March on Washington was now about
to be entirely changed.

Massive international publicity projected the ‘‘big six’’ as
March on Washington leaders. It was news to those angry grass-
roots Negroes steadily adding steam to their March plans. They
probably assumed that now those famous ‘“‘leaders’’ were en-
dorsing and joining them.

Invited next to join the March were four famous white public
figures: one Catholic, one Jew, one Protestant, and one labor
boss.

The massive publicity now gently hinted that the ‘‘big ten’’
would ‘‘supervise’’ the March on Washington’s ‘‘mood,’’ and
its ‘‘direction.’’

The four white figures began nodding. The word spread fast
among so-called ‘‘liberal’’ Catholics, Jews, Protestants, and
laborites: it was ‘‘democratic’’ to join this black March.

286 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

And suddenly, the previously March-nervous whites began
announcing they were going.

It was as if electrical current shot through the ranks of bour-
geois Negroes—the very so-called ‘‘middle-class’’ and ‘‘upper-
class’’ who had earlier been deploring the March on Washington
talk by grass-roots Negroes.

But white people, now, were going to march.

Why, some downtrodden, jobless, hungry Negro might have
gotten trampled. Those ‘‘integration’’-mad Negroes practically
ran over each other trying to find out where to sign up. The
‘fangry blacks’’ March suddenly had been made chic. Suddenly
it had a Kentucky Derby image. For the status-seeker, it was a
status symbol. ‘‘Were you there?’’ You can hear that right to-
day.
It had become an outing, a picnic.

The morning of the March, any rickety carloads of angry,
dusty, sweating small-town Negroes would have gotten lost
among the chartered jet planes, railroad cars, and air-conditioned
buses. What originally was planned to be an angry riptide, one
English newspaper aptly described now as “‘the gentle flood.”’

Talk about ‘‘integrated’’! It was like salt and pepper. And,
by now, there wasn’t a single logistics aspect uncontrolled.

The marchers had been instructed to bring no signs—signs
were provided. They had been told to sing one song: ‘‘We Shall
Overcome.’’ They had been told how to arrive, when, where to
arrive, where to assemble, when to start marching, the route to
march. First-aid stations were strategically located—even where
to faint!

Yes, I was there. I observed that circus. Who ever heard of
angry revolutionists all harmonizing ‘‘We Shall Overcome. . .
Suum Day. . .’’ while tripping and swaying along arm-in-arm
with the very people they were supposed to be angrily revolting
against? Who ever heard of angry revolutionists swinging their
bare feet together with their oppressor in lily-pad park pools,
with gospels and guitars and *‘I Have A Dream’’ speeches?

And the black masses in America were—and still are—having
a nightmare.

These ‘‘angry revolutionists’’ even followed their final in-
structions: to leave early. With all of those thousands upon thou-
sands of ‘‘angry revolutionists,’’ so few stayed over that the

ICARUS 287

next morning the Washington hotel association reported a costly
loss in empty rooms.

Hollywood couldn’t have topped it.

In a subsequent press poll, not one Congressman or Senator
with a previous record of opposition to civil nghts said he had
changed his views. What did anyone expect? How was a one-
day ‘‘integrated’’ picnic going to counter-influence these rep-
resentatives of prejudice rooted deep in the psyche of the
American white man for four hundred years?

The very fact that millions, black and white, believed in this
monumental farce is another example of how much this country
goes in for the surface glossing over, the escape ruse, surfaces,
instead of truly dealing with its deep-rooted problems.

What that March on Washington did do was lull Negroes for
a while. But inevitably, the black masses started realizing they
had been smoothly hoaxed again by the white man. And, inev-
itably, the black man’s anger rekindled, deeper than ever, and
there began bursting out in different cities, in the ‘‘long, hot
summer’’ of 1964, unprecedented racial crises.

About a month before the “‘Farce on Washington,’’ the New
York Times reported me, according to its poll conducted on col-
lege and university campuses, as “‘the second most sought af-
ter’’ speaker at colleges and universities. The only speaker ahead
of me was Senator Barry Goldwater.

I believe that what had generated such college popularity for
me was Dr. Lincoln’s book, The Black Muslims in America. It
had been mace required reading in numerous college courses.
Then a long, candid interview with me was carried by Playboy
magazine, whose circulation on college campuses is the biggest
of any magazine’s. And many students, having studied first the
book and then the Playboy interview, wanted to hear in person
this so-called “‘fiery Black Muslim.”’

When the New York Times poll was published, I had spoken
at well over fifty colleges and universities, like Brown, Harvard,
Yale, Columbia and Rutgers, in the Ivy League, and others
throughout the country. Right now, I have invitations from Cor-
nell, Princeton and probably a dozen others, as soon as my time
and their available dates can be scheduled together. Among Ne-
gro institutions, I had then been to Atlanta University and Clark

288 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

College down in Atlanta, to Howard University in Washington,
D.C., and to a number of others with small student bodies.

Except for all-black audiences, I liked the college audiences
best. The college sessions sometimes ran two to four hours—
they often ran overtime. Challenges, queries, and criticisms were
fired at me by the usually objective and always alive and search-
ing minds of undergraduate and graduate students, and their
faculties. The college sessions never failed to be exhilarating.
They never failed in helping me to further my own education. I
never experienced one college session that didn’t show me ways
to improve upon my presentation and defense of Mr. Muham-
mad’s teachings. Sometimes in a panel or debate appearance,
I’d find a jam-packed audience to hear me, alone, facing six or
eight student and faculty scholars—heads of departments such
as sociology, psychology, philosophy, history, and religion, and
each of them coming at me in his specialty.

At the outset, always I’d confront such panels with something
such as: ‘‘Gentlemen, I finished the eighth grade in Mason,
Michigan. My high school was the black ghetto of Roxbury,
Massachusetts. My college was in the streets of Harlem, and
my master’s was taken in prison. Mr. Muhammad has taught
me that I never need fear any man’s intellect who tries to defend
or to justify the white man’s criminal record against the non-
white man—especially the white man and the black man here in
North America.”’

It was like being on a battlefield—with intellectual and philo-
sophical bullets. It was an exciting battling with ideas. I got so
I could feel my audiences’ temperaments. I’ve talked with other
public speakers; they agree that this ability is native to any per-
son who has the “‘mass appeal’’ gift, who can get through to
and move people. It’s a psychic radar. As a doctor, with his
finger against a pulse, is able to feel the heart rate, when I am
up there speaking, I can feel the reaction to what I am saying.

I think I could be speaking blindfolded and after five minutes,
I could tell you if sitting out there before me was an all-black or
an all-white audience. Black audiences and white audiences feel
distinguishably different. Black audiences feel warmer, there is
almost a musical rhythm, for me, even in their silent response.

Question-and-answer periods are another area where, by now,
again blindfolded, I can often tell you the ethnic source of a

ICARUS 289

question. The most easily recognizable of these to me are a Jew
in any audience situation, and a bourgeois Negro in “‘inte-
grated’’ audiences.

My clue to the Jew’s question and challenges is that among
all other ethnic groups, his expressed thinking, his expressed
concems, are the most subjective. And the Jew is usually hy-
persensitive. I mean, you can’t even say ‘‘Jew’’ without him
accusing you of anti-Semitism. I don’t care what a Jew is pro-
fessionally, doctor, merchant, housewife, student, or what-
ever—first he, or she, thinks Jew.

Now, of course I can understand the Jew’s hypersensitivity.
For two thousand years, religious and personal prejudices against
Jews have been vented and exercised, as strong as white preju-
dices against the non-white. But I know that America’s five and
a half million Jews (two million of them are concentrated in
New York) look at it very practically, whether they know it or
not: that all of the bigotry and hatred focused upon the black
man keeps off the Jew a lot of heat that would be on him oth-
erwise.

For an example of what I am talking about—in every black
ghetto, Jews own the major businesses. Every night the owners
of those businesses go home with that black community’s
money, which helps the ghetto to stay poor. But I doubt that I
have ever uttered this absolute truth before an audience without
being hotly challenged, and accused by a Jew of anti-Semitism.
Why? I will bet that I have told five hundred such challengers
that Jews as a group would never watch some other minority
systematically siphoning out their community’s resources with-
out doing something about it. I have told them that if I tell the
simple truth, it doesn’t mean that I am anti-Semitic; it means
merely that I am anti-exploitation.

The white liberal may be a little taken aback to know that
from all-Negro audiences I never have had one challenge, never
One question that defended the white man. That has been true
even when a lot of those “‘black bourgeoisie’ and ‘‘integration’’-
mad Negroes were among the blacks. All Negroes, among
themselves, admit the white man’s criminal record. They may
not know as many details as I do, but they know the general
picture.

But, let me tell you something significant: This very same

290 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

bourgeois Negro who, among Negroes, would never make a
fool of himself in trying to defend the white man—watch that
same Negro in a mixed black and white audience, knowing he’s
overheard by his beloved ‘‘Mr. Charlie.’” Why, you should hear
those Negroes attack me, trying to justify, or forgive the white
man’s crimes! These Negroes are people who bring me nearest
to breaking one of my principal rules, which is never to let
myself become over-emotional and angry. Why, sometimes I’ve
felt I ought to jump down off that stand and get physical with
some of those brainwashed white man’s tools, parrots, puppets.
At the colleges, I’ve developed some stock put-downs for them:
‘“You must be a law student, aren’t you?’’ They have to say
either yes, or no. And I say, ‘‘I thought you were. You defend
this criminal white man harder than he defends his guilty self!’’

One particular university’s ‘‘token-integrated’’ black Ph.D.
associate professor I never will forget; he got me so mad I
couldn’t see straight. As badly as our 22 millions of education-
ally deprived black people need the help of any brains he has,
there he was looking like some fly in the buttermilk among white
‘‘colleagues’’—and he was trying to eat me up! He was ranting
about what a “‘divisive demagogue’”’ and what a ‘‘reverse rac-
ist’’ I was. I was racking my head, to spear that fool; finally I
held up my hand, and he stopped. ‘‘Do you know what white
racists call black Ph.D’s?’’ He said something like, ‘‘I believe
that I happen not to be aware of that’’—you know, one of these
ultra-proper-talking Negroes. And I laid the word down on him,
loud: ‘‘Nigger!’’

Speaking in these colleges and universities was good for the
Nation of Islam, I would report to Mr. Muhammad, because the
devilish white man’s best minds were developed and influenced
in the colleges and universities. But for some reason that I could
never understand until much later, Mr. Muhammad never really
wanted me to speak at these colleges and universities.

I was to learn later, from Mr. Muhammad’s own sons, that
he was envious because he felt unequipped to speak at colleges
himself. But nevertheless, in Mr. Muhammad’s behalf at this
time, I was finding these highly intelligent audiences amazingly
open-minded and objective in their receptions of the raw, naked
truths that I would tell them:

ICARUS 29]

‘Time and time again, the black, the brown, the red, and the
yellow races have witnessed and suffered the white man’s small
ability to understand the simple notes of the spirit. The white
man seems tone deaf to the total orchestration of humanity.
Every day, his newspapers’ front pages show us the world that
he has created.

‘*‘God’s wrathful judgment is close upon this white man stum-
bling and groping blindly in wickedness and evil and spiritual
darkness.

‘‘Look—remaining today are only two giant white nations,
America and Russia, each of them with mistrustful, nervous
satellites. America is propping up most of the remaining white
world. The French, the Belgians, the Dutch, the Portuguese, the
Spanish and other white nations have weakened steadily as non-
white Asians and Africans have recovered their lands.

‘‘America is subsidizing what is left of the prestige and
strength of the once mighty Britain. The sun has set forever on
that monocled, pith-helmeted resident colonialist, sipping tea
with his delicate lady in the non-white colonies being system-
atically robbed of every valuable resource. Britain’s superfluous
royalty and nobility now exist by charging tourists to inspect the
once baronial castles, and by selling memoirs, perfumes, auto-
graphs, titles, and even themselves.

‘*The whole world knows that the white man cannot survive
another war. If either of the two giant white nations pushes the
button, white civilization will die!

**And we see again that not ideologies, but race, and color,
is what binds human beings. Is it accidental that as Red Chinese
visit African and Asian countries, Russia and America draw
steadily closer to each other?

‘*The collective white man’s history has left the non-white
peoples no alternative, either, but to draw closer to each other.
Characteristically, as always, the devilish white man lacks the
moral strength and courage to cast off his arrogance. He wants,
today, to ‘buy’ friends among the non-whites. He tries, char-
acteristically, to cover up his past record. He does not possess
the humility to admit his guilt, to try and atone for his crimes.
The white man has perverted the simple message of love that
the Prophet Jesus lived and taught when He walked upon this
earth.”’

292 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Audiences seemed surprised when I spoke about Jesus. I
would explain that we Muslims believe in the Prophet Jesus. He
was one of the three most important Prophets of the religion of
Islam, the others being Muhammad and Moses. In Jerusalem
there are Muslim shrines built to the Prophet Jesus. I would
explain that it was our belief that Christianity did not perform
what Christ taught. I never failed to cite that even Billy Graham,
challenged in Africa, had himself made the distinction, “‘I be-
lieve in Christ, not Christianity.”’

I never will forget one little blonde co-ed after I had spoken
at her New England college. She must have caught the next
plane behind that one I took to New York. She found the Muslim
restaurant in Harlem. I just happened to be there when she came
in. Her clothes, her carriage, her accent, all showed Deep South
white breeding and money. At that college, I told how the ante-
bellum white slavemaster even devilishly manipulated his own
woman. He convinced her that she was ‘‘too pure’’ for his base
‘‘animal instincts.’’ With this “‘noble’’ ruse, he conned his own
wife to look away from his obvious preference for the ‘‘animal’’
black woman. So the ‘‘delicate mistress’’ sat and watched the
plantation’s littke mongrel-complexioned children, sired obvi-
ously by her father, her husband, her brothers, her sons. I said
at that college that the guilt of American whites included their
knowledge that in hating Negroes, they were hating, they were
rejecting, they were denying, their own blood.

Anyway, I’d never seen anyone I ever spoke before more
affected than this little white college girl. She demanded, right
up in my face, ‘‘Don’t you believe there are any govd white
people?’’ I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I told her, ‘‘People’s
deeds 1 believe in, Miss—not their words.’’

“What can I do?’’ she exclaimed. I told her, ‘‘Nothing.’’ She
burst out crying, and ran out and up Lenox Avenue and caught
a taxi.

Mr. Muhammad—each time I’d go to see him in Chicago, or
in Phoenix—would warm me with his expressions of his ap-
proval and confidence in me.

He left me in charge of the Nation of Islam’s affairs when he
made an Omra pilgrimage to the Holy City Mecca.

ICARUS 293

I believed so strongly in Mr. Muhammad that I would have
hurled myself between him and an assassin.

A chance event brought crashing home to me that there was
something—one thing—greater than my reverence for Mr. Mu-
hammad.

It was the awesomeness of my reason to revere him.

I was the invited speaker at the Harvard Law School Forum.
I happened to glance through a window. Abruptly, I realized
that I was looking in the direction of the apartment house that
was my old burglary gang’s hideout.

It rocked me like a tidal wave. Scenes from my once depraved
life lashed through my mind. Living like an animal; thinking
like an animal!

Awareness came surging up in me—how deeply the religion
of Islam had reached down into the mud to lift me up, to save
me from being what I inevitably would have been: a dead crim-
inal in a grave, or, if still alive, a flint-hard, bitter, thirty-seven-
year-old convict in some penitentiary, or insane asylum. Or, at
best, I would have been an old, fading Detroit Red, hustling,
stealing enough for food and narcotics, and myself being stalked
as prey by cruelly ambitious younger hustlers such as Detroit
Red had been.

But Allah had blessed me to learn about the religion of Islam,
which had enabled me to lift myself up from the muck and the
mire of this rotting world.

And there I stood, the invited speaker, at Harvard.

A story that I had read in prison when I was reading a lot of
Greek mythology flicked into my head.

The boy Icarus. Do you remember the story?

Icarus’ father made some wings that he fastened with wax.
‘*Never fly but so high with these wings,’’ the father said. But
soaring around, this way, that way, Icarus’ flying pleased him
so that he began thinking he was flying on his own merit. Higher,
he flew—higher—until the heat of the sun melted the wax hold-
ing those wings. And down came Icarus—tumbling.

Standing there by that Harvard window, I silently vowed to
Allah that I never would forget that any wings I wore had been
put on by the religion of Islam. That fact I never have forgotten

. . not for one second.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
OUT

In nineteen sixty-one, Mr. Muhammad’s condition grew sud-
denly worse.

As he talked with me when I visited him, when he talked with
anyone, he would unpredictably begin coughing harder, and
harder, until his body was wracked and jerking in agonies that
were painful to watch, and Mr. Muhammad would have to take
to his bed.

We among Mr. Muhammad’s officials, and his family, kept
the situation to ourselves, while we could. Few other Muslims
became aware of Mr. Muhammad’s condition until there were
last-minute cancellations of long-advertised personal appear-
ances at some big Muslim rallies. Muslims knew that only
something really serious would ever have stopped the Messen-
ger from keeping his promise to be with them at their rallies.
Their questions had to be answered, and the news of our leader’s
illness swiftly spread through the Nation of Islam.

Anyone not a Muslim could not conceive what the possible
loss of Mr. Muhammad would have meant among his followers.
To us, the Nation of Islam was Mr. Muhammad. What bonded
us into the best organization black Americans ever had was every
Muslim’s devout regard for Mr. Muhammad as black America’s
moral, mental, and spiritual reformer.

Stated another way, we Muslims regarded ourselves as moral
and mental and spiritual examples for other black Americans,
because we followed the personal example of Mr. Muhammad.
Black communities discussed with respect how Muslims were
suspended if they lied, gambled, cheated, or smoked. For moral

294

ouT 295

crimes, such as fornication or adultery, Mr. Muhammad per-
sonally would mete out sentences of from one to five years of
‘‘isolation,’’ if not complete expulsion from the Nation. And
Mr. Muhammad would punish his officials more readily than
the newest convert in a mosque. He said that any defecting
official betrayed both himself and his position as a leader and
example for other Muslims. For every Muslim, in his rejection
of immoral temptation, the beacon was Mr. Muhaminad. All
Muslims felt as one that without his light, we would all be in
darkness.

As I have related, doctors recommended a dry climate to ease
Mr. Muhammad’s condition. Quickly we found up for sale in
Phoenix the home of the saxophone player, Louis Jordan. The
Nation’s treasury purchased the home, and Mr. Muhammad soon
moved there.

Only by being two people could I have worked harder in the
service of the Nation of Islam. I had every gratification that I
wanted. I had helped bring about the progress and national im-
pact such that none could call us liars when we called Mr. Mu-
hammad the most powerful black man in America. I had helped
Mr. Muhammad and his other ministers to revolutionize the
American black man’s thinking, opening his eyes until he would
never again look in the same fearful, worshipful way at the white
man. I had participated in spreading the truths that had done so
much to help the American black man rid himself of the mirage
that the white race was made up of ‘“‘superior’’ beings. I had
been a part of the tapping of something in the black secret soul.

If I harbored any personal disappointment whatsoever, it was
that privately I was convinced that our Nation of Islam could be
an even greater force in the American black man’s overall strug-
gle—if we engaged in more action. By that, I mean I thought
privately that we should have amended, or relaxed, our general
non-engagement policy. I felt that, wherever black people com-
mitted themselves, in the Little Rocks and the Birminghams and
other places, militantly disciplined Muslims should also be
there—for all the world to see, and respect, and discuss.

It could be heard increasingly in the Negro communities:
‘*Those Muslims talk tough, but they never do anything, unless
somebody bothers Muslims.’’ I moved around among outsiders
more than most other Muslim officials. I felt the very real po-

296 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

tentiality that, considering the mercurial moods of the black
masses, this labeling of Muslims as “‘talk only’’ could see us,
powerful as we were, one day suddenly separated from the Ne-
groes’ front-line struggle.

But beyond that single personal concer, I couldn’t have asked
Allah to bless my efforts any more than he had. Islam in New
York City was growing faster than anywhere in America. From
the one tiny mosque to which Mr. Muhammad had originally
sent me, I had now built three of the Nation’s most powerful
and aggressive mosques—Harlem’s Seven-A in Manhattan, Co-
rona’s Seven-B in Queens, and Mosque Seven-C in Brooklyn.
And on a national basis, I had either directly established, or I
had helped to establish, most of the one hundred or more
mosques in the fifty states. I was crisscrossing North America
sometimes as often as four times a week. Often, what sleep I
got was caught in the jet planes. I was maintaining a marathon
schedule of press, radio, television, and public-speaking com-
mitments. The only way that I could keep up with my job
for Mr. Muhammad was by flying with the wings that he had
given me.

As far back as 1961, when Mr. Muhammad’s illness took that
turn for the worse, I had heard chance negative remarks con-
cerning me. I had heard veiled implications. I had noticed other
little evidences of the envy and of the jealousy which Mr. Mu-
hammad had prophesied. For example, it was being said that
‘*Minister Malcolm is trying to take over the Nation,’’ it was
being said that I was ‘‘taking credit’’ for Mr. Muhammad’s
teaching, it was being said that I was trying to ‘‘build an em-
pire’’ for myself. It was being said that I loved playing “‘coast-
to-coast Mr. Big Shot.’’

When I heard these things, actually, they didn’t anger me.
They helped me to re-steel my inner resolve that such lies would
never become true of me. I would always remember that Mr.
Muhammad had prophesied this envy and jealousy. This would
help me to ignore it, because I knew that he would understand
if he ever should hear such talk.

A frequent rumor among non-Muslims was ‘‘Malcolm X is
making a pile of money.’’ All Muslims at least knew better than
that. Me making money? The F.B.I. and the C.I.A. and the

OUT 297

I.R.S. all combined can’t turn up a thing I got, beyond a car to
drive and a seven-room house to live in. (And by now the Nation
of Islam is jealously and greedily trying to take away even that
house.) I had access to money. Yes! Elijah Muhammad would
authorize for me any amount that I asked for. But he knew, as
every Muslim official knew, that every nickel and dime I ever
got was used to promote the Nation of Islam.

My attitude toward money generated the only domestic quar-
rel that I have ever had with my beloved wife Betty. As our
children increased in number, so did Betty’s hints to me that I
should put away something for our family. But I refused, and
finally we had this argument. I put my foot down. I knew I had
in Betty a wife who would sacrifice her life for me if such an
occasion ever presented itself to her, but still I told her that too
many organizations had been destroyed by leaders who tried to
benefit personally, often goaded into it by their wives. We nearly
broke up over this argument. I finally convinced Betty that if
anything ever happened to me, the Nation of Islam would take
care of her for the rest of her life, and of our children until they
were grown. I could never have been a bigger fool!

In every radio or television appearance, in every newspaper
interview, I always made it crystal clear that I was Mr. Muham-
mad’s representative. Anyone who ever heard me make a public
speech during this time knows that at least once a minute I said,
‘*The Honorable Elijah Muhammad teaches—’’ I would refuse
to talk with any person who ever tried any so-called ‘‘joke’’
about my constant reference to Mr. Muhammad. Whenever any-
one said, or wrote, ‘‘Malcolm X, the number two Black Mus-
lim—’’ I would recoil. I have called up reporters and radio and
television newscasters long-distance and asked them never to
use that phrasing again, explaining to them: ‘‘A// Muslims are
number two—after Mr. Muhammad.”’

My briefcase was stocked with Mr. Muhammad’s photo-
graphs. I gave them to photographers who snapped my picture.
I would telephone editors asking them, ‘‘Please use Mr. Mu-
hammad’s picture instead of mine.’ When, to my joy, Mr.’
Muhammad agreed to grant interviews to white writers, I rarely
spoke to a white writer, or a black one either, whom I didn’t
urge to visit Mr. Muhammad in person in Chicago—‘‘Get the

298 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

truth from the Messenger in person’’—and a number of them
did go there and meet and interview him.

Both white people and Negroes—even including Muslims—
would make me uncomfortable, always giving me so much credit
for the steady progress that the Nation of Islam was making.
‘‘All praise is due to Allah,’’ I told everybody. ‘‘Anything cred-
itable that I do is due to Mr. Elijah Muhammad.’’

I believe that no man in the Nation of Islam could have gained
the international prominence I gained with the wings Mr. Mu-
hammad had put on me—plus having the freedom that he granted
me to take liberties and do things on my own—and still have
remained as faithful and as selfless a servant to him as I was.

I would say that it was in 1962 when I began to notice that
less and less about me appeared in our Nation’s Muhammad
Speaks. I learned that Mr. Muhammad’s son, Herbert, now the
paper’s publisher, had instructed that as little as possible be
printed about me. In fact, there was more in the Muslim paper
about integrationist Negro ‘‘leaders’’ than there was about me.
I could read more about myself in the European, Asian, and
African press.

I am not griping about publicity for myself. I already had
received more publicity than many world personages. But I re-
sented the fact that the Muslims’ own newspaper denied them
news of important things being done in their behalf, simply
because it happened that I had done the things. I was conducting
rallies, trying to propagate Mr. Muhammad’s teachings, and
because of jealousy and narrow-mindedness finally I got no cov-
erage at all—for by now an order had been given to completely
black me out of the newspaper. For instance, I spoke to eight
thousand students at the University of California, and the press
there gave big coverage to what I said of the power and program
of Mr. Muhammad. But when I got to Chicago, expecting at
least a favorable response and some coverage, I met only a chilly
reaction. The same thing happened when, in Harlem, I staged a
rally that drew seven thousand people. At that time, Chicago
headquarters was even discouraging me from staging large ral-
lies. But the next week, I held another Harlem rally that was
even bigger and more successful than the first one—and obvi-
ously this only increased the envy of the Chicago headquarters.

But I would put these things out of my mind, as they occurred.

OUT 299

At least, as much as I humanly could, I put them out of my
mind. I am not trying to make myself seem right and noble. I
am telling the truth. I loved the Nation, and Mr. Muhammad. I
lived for the Nation, and for Mr. Muhammad.

It made other Muslim officials jealous because my picture was
often in the daily press. They wouldn’t remember that my pic-
ture was there because of my fervor in championing Mr. Mu-
hammad. They wouldn’t simply reason that as vulnerable as the
Nation of Islam was to distorted rumors and outnght lies, we
needed nothing so little as to have our public spokesman con-
stantly denying the rnmors. Common sense would have told any
official that certainly Mr. Muhammad couldn’t be mnning all
over the country as his own spokesman. And whoever he ap-
pointed as his spokesman couldn’t avoid a lot of press focus.

Whenever I caught any resentful feelings hanging on in my
mind, I would be ashamed of myself, considering it a sign of
weakness in myself. I knew that at least Mr. Muhammad knew
that my life was totally dedicated to representing him.

But during 1963, I couldn’t help being very hypersensitive to
my critics in high posts within our Nation. I quit selecting certain
of my New York brothers and giving them money to go and lay
groundwork for new mosques in other cities—because slighting
remarks were being made about ‘“‘Malcolm’s ministers.’’ In a
time in America when it was of arch importance for a militant
black voice to reach mass audiences, Life magazine wanted to
do a personal story of me, and I refused. I refused again when
a cover story was offered by Newsweek. I refused again when I
could have been a guest on the top-rated ‘‘Meet the Press’’
television program. Each refusal was a general loss for the black
man, and, for the Nation of Islam, each refusal was a specific
loss—and each refusal was made because of Chicago’s attitude.
There was jealousy because I had been requested to make these
featured appearances.

When a high-powered-nifle slug tore through the back of the
N.A.A.C.P. Field Secretary Medgar Evers in Mississippi, I
wanted to say the blunt truths that needed to be said. When a
bomb was exploded in a Negro Christian church in Birmingham,
Alabama, snuffing out the lives of those four beautiful little black
girls, I made comments—but not what should have been said
about the climate of hate that the American white man was gen-

300 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

erating and nourishing. The more hate was permitted to lash out
when there were ways it could have been checked, the more
bold the hate became—until at last it was flaring out at even the
white man’s own kind, including his own leaders. In Dallas,
Texas, for instance, the then Vice President and Mrs. Johnson
were vulgarly insulted. And the U.S. Ambassador to the United
Nations, Adlai Stevenson, was spat upon and hit on the head by
a white woman picket.

Mr. Muhammad made me the Nation’s first National Minis-
ter. At a late 1963 rally in Philadelphia, Mr. Muhammad, em-
bracing me, said to that audience before us, ‘‘This is my most
faithful, hard-working minister. He will follow me until he dies. ”’

He had never paid such a compliment to any Muslim. No
praise from any other earthly person could have meant more to
me.

But this would be Mr. Muhammad’s and my last public ap-
pearance together.

Not long before, I had been on the Jerry Williams radio pro-
gram in Boston, when someone handed me an item hot off the
Associated Press machine. I read that a chapter of the Louisiana
Citizens Council had just offered a $10,000 reward for my death.

But the threat of death was much closer to me than somewhere
in Louisiana.

What I am telling you 1s the truth. When I discovered who
else wanted me dead, I am telling you—it nearly sent me to
Bellevue.

In my twelve years as a Muslim minister, I had always taught
so strongly on the moral issues that many Muslims accused me
of being ‘‘anti-woman.’’ The very keel of my teaching, and my
most bone-deep personal belief, was that Elijah Muhammad in
every aspect of his existence was a symbol of moral, mental,
and spiritual reform among the American black people. For
twelve years, I had taught that within the entire Nation of Islam;
my own transformation was the best example I knew of Mr.
Muhammad’s power to reform black men’s lives. From the time
I entered prison until I married, about twelve years later, because
of Mr. Muhammad’s influence upon me, I had never touched a
woman.

But around 1963, if anyone had noticed, I spoke less and less

ouT 301

of religion. I taught social doctrine to Muslims, and current
events, and politics. I stayed wholly off the subject of morality.

And the reason for this was that my faith had been shaken in
a way that I can never fully describe. For I had discovered Mus-
lims had been betrayed by Elijah Muhammad himself.

I want to make this as brief as I can, only enough so that my
position and my reactions will be understood. As to whether or
not I should reveal this, there’s no longer any need for any
question in my mind—for now the public knows. To make it
concise, I will quote from one wire service story as it appeared
in newspapers, and was reported over radio and television, across
the United States:

‘‘Los Angeles, July 3 (UPI)—Eljah Muhammad, 67-year-
old leader of the Black Muslim movement, today faced paternity
suits from two former secretaries who charged he fathered their
four children. . . . Both women are in their twenties. . . . Miss
Rosary and Miss Williams charged they had intimacies with
Elijah Muhammad from 1957 until this year. Miss Rosary al-
leged he fathered her two children and said she was expecting a
third child by him. . . the other plaintiff said he was the father
of her daughter... .”’

As far back as 1955, I had heard hints. But believe me when
I tell you this: for me even to consider believing anything as
insane-sounding as any slightest implication of any immoral be-
havior of Mr. Muhammad—why, the very idea made me shake
with fear.

And so my mind simply refused to accept anything so gro-
tesque as adultery mentioned in the same breath with Mr. Mu-
hammad’s name.

Adultery! Why, any Muslim guilty of adultery was summarily
ousted in disgrace. One of the Nation’s most closely kept scan-
dals was that a succession of the personal secretaries of Mr.
Muhammad had become pregnant. They were brought before
Muslim courts and charged with adultery and they confessed.
Humiliated before the general body, they received sentences of
from one to five years of ‘‘isolation.’’ That meant they were to
have no contact whatsoever with any other Muslims.

I don’t think I could say anything which better testifies to my
depth of faith in Mr. Muhammad than that I totally and abso-
lutely reyected my own intelligence. I simply refused to believe.

302 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I didn’t want Allah to ‘‘burn my brain’’ as I felt the brain of my
brother Reginald had been bummed for harboring evil thoughts
about Mr. Elijah Muhammad. The last time I had seen Reginald,
one day he walked into the Mosque Seven restaurant. I saw him
coming in the door. I went and met him. I looked into my own
brother’s eyes; I told him he wasn’t welcome among Muslims,
and he turned around and left, and I haven’t seen him since. I
did that to my own blood brother because, years before, Mr.
Muhammad had sentenced Reginald to ‘‘isolation’’ from all
other Muslims—and I considered that I was a Muslim before I
was Reginald’s brother.

No one in the world could have convinced me that Mr. Mu-
hammad would betray the reverence bestowed upon him by all
of the mosques full of poor, trusting Muslims nickeling and
diming up to faithfully support the Nation of Islam—when many
of these faithful were scarcely able to pay their own rents.

But by late 1962, I learned reliably that numerous Muslims
were leaving Mosque Two in Chicago. The ugly rumor was
spreading swiftly—even among non-Muslim Negroes. When I
thought how the press constantly sought ways to discredit the
Nation of Islam, I trembled to think of such a thing reaching the
ears of some newspaper reporter, either black or white.

I actually began to have nightmares . . . I saw headlines.

I was burdened with a leaden fear as I kept speaking engage-
ments all over America. Any time a reporter came anywhere
near me, I could hear him ask, ‘‘Is it tue, Mr. Malcolm X, this
report we hear, that . . .”” And what was I going to say?

There was never any specific moment when I admitted the
situation to myself. In the way that the human mind can do,
somehow I slid over admitting to myself the ugly fact, even as
I began dealing with it.

Both in New York and Chicago, non-Muslims whom I knew
began to tell me indirectly they had heard—or they would ask
me if I had heard. I would act as if I had no idea whatever of
what they were talking about—and I was grateful when they
chose not to spell out what they knew. I went around knowing
that I looked to them like a total fool. I felt like a total fool, out
there every day preaching, and apparently not knowing what
was going on night under my nose, in my own organization,
involving the very man I was praising so. To look like a fool

ouT 303

unearthed emotions I hadn’t felt since my Harlem hustler days.
The worst thing in the hustler’s world was to be a dupe.

I will give you an example. Backstage at the Apollo Theater
in Harlem one day, the comedian Dick Gregory looked at me.
‘‘Man,’” he said, ‘‘Muhammad’s nothing but a. . .”’—I can’t
say the word he used. Bam! Just like that. My Muslim instincts
said to attack Dick—but, instead, I felt weak and hollow. I think
Dick sensed how upset I was and he let me get him off the
subject. I knew Dick, a Chicagoan, was wise in the ways of the
streets, and blunt-spoken. I wanted to plead with him not to say
to anyone else what he had said to me—but I couldn’t; it would
have been my own admission.

I can’t describe the torments I went through.

Always before, in any extremity, I had caught the first plane
to Mr. Elijah Muhammad. He had virtually raised me from the
dead. Everything I was that was creditable, he had made me. I
felt that no matter what, I could not let him down.

There was no one I could tum to with this problem, except
Mr. Muhammad himself. Ultimately that had to be the case. But
first I went to Chicago to see Mr. Muhammad’s second youngest
son, Wallace Muhammad. I felt that Wallace was Mr. Muham-
mad’s most strongly spiritual son, the son with the most objec-
tive outlook. Always, Wallace and I had shared an exceptional
closeness and trust.

And Wallace knew, when he saw me, why I had come to see
him. *‘I know,”’ he said. I said I thought we should rally to help
his father. Wallace said he didn’t feel that his father would wel-
come any efforts to help him. I told myself that Wallace must
be crazy.

Next, I broke the rule that no Muslim is supposed to have any
contact with another Muslim in the ‘‘isolated’’ state. I looked
up, and I talked with three of the former secretaries to Mr.
Muhammad. From their own mouths, I heard their stories of
who had fathered their children. And from their own mouths I
heard that Elijah Muhammad had told them I was the best, the
greatest minister he ever had, but that someday I would leave
him, turn against him—so I was ‘‘dangerous.’’ I learned from
these former secretaries of Mr. Muhammad that while he was
praising me to my face. he was tearing me apart behind my back.

That deeply hurt me.

304 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Every day, I was meeting the microphones, cameras, press
reporters, and other commitments, including the Muslims of my
own Mosque Seven. I felt almost out of my mind.

Finally, the thing crystallized for me. As long as I did noth-
ing, I felt it was the same as being disloyal. I felt that as long
as I sat down, I was not helping Mr. Muhammad—when some-
body needed to be standing up.

So one night I wrote to Mr. Muhammad about the poison
being spread about him. He telephoned me in New York. He
said that when he saw me he would discuss it.

I desperately wanted to find some way—some kind of a
bridge—over which I was certain the Nation of Islam could be
saved from self-destruction. I had faith in the Nation: we
weren’t some group of Christian Negroes, jumping and shouting
and full of sins.

I thought of one bridge that could be used if and when the
shattering disclosure should become public. Loyal Muslims
could be taught that a man’s accomplishments in his life out-
weigh his personal, human weaknesses. Wallace Muhammad
helped me to review the Quran and the Bible for documentation.
David’s adultery with Bathsheba weighed less on history’s
scales, for instance, than the positive fact of David’s killing
Goliath. Thinking of Lot, we think not of incest, but of his
Saving the people from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Or, our image of Noah isn’t of his getting drunk—but of his
building the ark and teaching people to save themselves from
the flood. We think of Moses leading the Hebrews from bond-
age, not of Moses’ adultery with the Ethiopian women. In all of
the cases I reviewed, the positive outweighed the negative.

I began teaching in New York Mosque Seven that a man’s
accomplishments in his life outweighed his personal, human
weaknesses. I taught that a person’s good deeds outweigh his
bad deeds. I never mentioned the previously familiar subjects of
adultery and fornication, and I never mentioned immoral evils.

By some miracle, the adultery talk which was so widespread
in Chicago seemed to only leak a little in Boston, Detroit, and
New York. Apparently, it hadn’t reached other mosques around
the country at all. In Chicago, increasing numbers of Muslims
were leaving Mosque Two, I heard, and many non-Muslims
who had been sympathetic to the Nation were now outspokenly

out 305

anti-Muslim. In February 1963, I officiated at the University of
Islam graduation exercises; when I introduced various members
of the Muhammad family, I could feel the cold chill toward them
from the Muslims in the audience.

Elijah Muhammad had me fly to Phoenix to see him in April,
1963.

We embraced, as always—and almost immediately he took
me outside, where we began to walk by his swimming pool.

He was The Messenger of Allah. When I was a foul, vicious
convict, so evil that other convicts had called me Satan, this
man had rescued me. He was the man who had trained me, who
had treated me as if I were his own flesh and blood. He was the
man who had given me wings—to go places, to do things I
otherwise never would have dreamed of. We walked, with me
caught up in a whirlwind of emotions.

‘Well, son,’” Mr. Muhammad said, ‘‘what is on your mind?”’

Plainly, frankly, pulling no punches, I told Mr. Muhammad
what was being said. And without waiting for any response from
him, I said that with his son Wallace’s help I had found in the
Quran and the Bible that which might be taught to Muslims—if
it became necessary—as the fulfillment of prophecy.

‘Son, I’m not surprised,’’ Elijah Muhammad said. ‘‘You
always have had such a good understanding of prophecy, and
of spiritual things. You recognize that’s what all of this is—
prophecy. You have the kind of understanding that only an old
man has.

*‘T’m David,’’ he said. ‘‘When you read about how David
took another man’s wife, I’m that David. You read about Noah,
who got drunk—that’s me. You read about Lot, who went and
laid up with his own daughters. I have to fulfill all of those
things.”’

I remembered that when an epidemic is about to hit some-
where, that community’s people are inoculated against exposure
with some of the same germs that are anticipated—and this pre-
pares them to resist the oncoming virus.

I decided I had better prepare six other East Coast Muslim
officials whom I selected.

I told them. And then I told them why I had told them—that
I felt they should not be caught by surprise and shock if it be-

306 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

came their job to teach the Muslims in their mosques the *‘ful-
fillment of prophecy.’’ I found then that some had already heard
it; one of them, Minister Louis X of Boston, as much as seven
months before. They had been living with the dilemma them-
selves.

I never dreamed that the Chicago Muslim officials were going
to make it appear that I was throwing gasoline on the fire instead
of water. I never dreamed that they were going to try to make it
appear that instead of inoculating against an epidemic, I had
started it.

The stage in Chicago even then was being set for Muslims to
shift their focus off the epidemic—and onto me.

Hating me was going to become the cause for people of shat-
tered faith to rally around.

Non-Muslim Negroes who knew me well, and even some of
the white reporters with whom I had some regular contact, were
telling me, almost wherever I went, ‘‘Malcolm X, you’re look-
ing tired. You need a rest.”’

They didn’t know a fraction of it. Since I had been a Muslim,
this was the first time any white people really got to me in a
personal way. I could tell that some of them were really honest
and sincere. One of these, whose name I won’t call—he might
lose his job—said, ‘‘Malcolm X, the whites need your voice
worse than the Negroes.’’ I remember so well his saying this
because it prefaced the first time since I became a Muslim that
I had ever talked with any white man at any length about any-
thing except the Nation of Islam and the American black man’s
struggle today.

I can’t remember how, or why, he somehow happened to
mention the Dead Sea Scrolls. I came back with something like,
‘*Yes, those scrolls are going to take Jesus off the stained-glass
windows and the frescoes where he has been lily-white, and put
Him back into the true mainstream of history where Jesus ac-
tually was non-white.’’ The reporter was surprised, and I went
on that the Dead Sea Scrolls were going to reaffirm that Jesus
was a member of that brotherhood of Egyptian seers called the
Essene—a fact already known from Philo, the famous Egyptian
historian of Jesus’ time. And the reporter and I got off on about
two good hours of talking in the areas of archaeology, history,
and religion. It was so pleasant. I almost forgot the heavy wor-

ouT 307

ries on my mind—for that brief respite. I remember we wound
up agreeing that by the year 2000, every schoolchild will be
taught the true color of great men of antiquity.

I’ve said that I expected headlines momentarily. I hadn’t ex-
pected the kind which came.

No one needs to be reminded of who got assassinated in Dal-
las, Texas, on November 22, 1963.

Within hours after the assassination—I am telling nothing but
the truth—every Muslim minister received from Mr. Elijah Mu-
hammad a directive—in fact, two directives. Every minister was
ordered to make no remarks at all concerning the assassination.
Mr. Muhammad instructed that if pressed for comment, we
should say: ‘‘No comment.’’

During that three-day period where there was no other news
to be heard except relating to the murdered President, Mr. Mu-
hammad had a previously scheduled speaking engagement in
New York at the Manhattan Center. He cancelled his coming to
speak, and as we were unable to get back the money already
paid for the rental of the center, Mr. Muhammad told me to
speak in his stead. And so I spoke.

Many times since then, I’ve looked at the speech notes I used
that day, which had been prepared at least a week before the
assassination. The title of my speech was ‘‘God’s Judgment of
White America.’’ It was on the theme, familiar to me, of ‘‘as
you sow, so shall you reap,’’ or how the hypocritical American
white man was reaping what he had sowed.

The question-and-answer period opened, I suppose inevita-
bly, with someone asking me, ‘‘What do you think about Pres-
ident Kennedy’s assassination? What is your opinion?’’

Without a second thought, I said what I honestly felt—that it
was, as I saw it, acase of *‘the chickens coming home to roost.”’
I said that the hate in white men had not stopped with the killing
of defenseless black people, but that hate, allowed to spread
unchecked, finally had struck down this country’s Chief of State.
I said it was the same thing as had happened with Medgar Evers,
with Patrice Lumumba, with Madame Nhu’s husband.

The headlines and the news broadcasts promptly had it:
“Black Muslims’ Malcolm X: ‘Chickens Come Home to
Roost.’ *’

308 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

It makes me feel weary to think of it all now. All over Amer-
ica, all over the world, some of the world’s most important
personages were saying in various ways, and in far stronger
ways than I did, that America’s climate of hate had been re-
sponsible for the President’s death. But when Malcolm X said
the same thing, it was ominous.

My regular monthly visit to Mr. Muhammad was due the next
day. Somehow, on the plane, I expected something. I’ve always
had this strong intuition.

Mr. Muhammad and I embraced each other in greeting. I
sensed some ingredient missing from his usual amiability. And
I was suddenly tense—to me also very significant. For years, I
had prided myself that Mr. Muhammad and I were so close that
I knew how he felt by how I felt. If he was nervous, I was
nervous. If I was relaxed, then I knew he was relaxed. Now, I
felt the tension. ...

First we talked of other things, sitting in his living room. Then
he asked me, ‘‘Did you see the papers this moming?’”’

I said, ‘‘Yes, sir, I did.’’

*‘That was a very bad statement,’’ he said. ‘‘The country
loved this man. The whole country is in mourning. That was
very ill-timed. A statement like that can make it hard on Mus-
lims in general.’’

And then, as if Mr. Muhammad’s voice came from afar, I
heard his words: “‘I’ll have to silence you for the next ninety
days—so that the Muslims everywhere can be disassociated from
the blunder. ”’

I was numb.

But I was a follower of Mr. Muhammad. Many times I had
said to my own assistants that anyone in a position to discipline
others must be able to take disciplining himself.

I told Mr. Muhammad, ‘‘Sir, I agree with you, and I submit,
one hundred per cent.”’

I flew back to New York psychologically preparing myself to
tell my Mosque Seven assistants that I had been suspended—or
*‘silenced.”’

But to my astonishment, upon arrival I learned that my assis-
tants already had been informed.

What astonished me even more—a telegram had been sent to
every New York City newspaper and radio and television sta-

ouT 309

tion. It was the most quick and thorough publicity job that I had
ever seen the Chicago officials initiate.

Every telephone where I could possibly be reached was ring-
ing. London. Paris. A.P., U.P.I. Every television and radio
network, and all of the newspapers were calling. I told them all,
‘‘T disobeyed Mr. Muhammad. I submit completely to his wis-
dom. Yes, I expect to be speaking again after ninety days.”’

‘Malcolm X Silenced!’’ It was headlines.

My first worry was that if a scandal broke for the Nation of
Islam within the next ninety days, I would be gagged when I
could be the most experienced Muslim in dealing with the news
media that would make the most of any scandal within the Na-
tion.

I learned next that my ‘‘silencing’’ was even more thorough
than I had thought. I was not only forbidden to talk with the
press, I was not even to teach in my own Mosque Seven.

Next, an announcement was made throughout the Nation of
Islam that I would be reinstated within ninety days, ‘“‘if he sub-
mits.”’

This made me suspicious—for the first time. I had completely
submitted. But, deliberately, Muslims were being given the im-
pression that I had rebelled.

I hadn’t hustled in the streets for years for nothing. I knew
when I was being set up.

Three days later, the first word came to me that a Mosque
Seven official who had been one of my most immediate assis-
tants was telling certain Mosque Seven brothers: ‘‘If you knew
what the Minister did, you’d go out and kill him yourself.’’

And then I knew. As any official in the Nation of Islam would
instantly have known, any death-talk for me could have been
approved of—if not actually initiated—by only one man.

My head felt like it was bleeding inside. I felt like my brain
was damaged. I went to see Dr. Leona A. Turner, who has been
my family doctor for years, who practices in East Elmhurst,
Long Island. I asked her to give me a brain examination.

She did examine me. She said I was under great strain—and
I needed rest.

Cassius Clay and I are not together today. But always I must
be grateful to him that at just this time, when he was in Miami

310 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

training to fight Sonny Liston, Cassius invited me, Betty, and
the children to come there as his guests—as a sixth wedding
anniversary present to Betty and me.

I had met Cassius Clay in Detroit in 1962. He and his brother
Rudolph came into the Student’s Luncheonette next door to the
Detroit Mosque where Elijah Muhammad was about to speak at
a big rally. Every Muslim present was impressed by the bearing
and the obvious genuineness of the striking, handsome pair of
prizefighter brothers. Cassius came up and pumped my hand,
introducing himself as he later presented himself to the world,
‘‘l’m Cassius Clay.’’ He acted as if I was supposed to know
who he was. So I acted as though I did. Up to that moment,
though, I had never even heard of him. Ours were two entirely
different worlds. In fact, Elijah Muhammad instructed us Mus-
lims against all forms of sports.

As Elijah Muhammad spoke, the two Clay brothers practi-
cally led the applause, further impressing everyone with their
sincerity—since a Muslim rally was about the world’s last place
to seek fight fans.

Thereafter, now and then I heard how Cassius showed up in
Muslim mosques and restaurants in various cities. And if I hap-
pened to be speaking anywhere within reasonable distance of
wherever Cassius was, he would be present. I liked him. Some
contagious quality about him made him one of the very few
people I ever invited to my home. Betty liked him. Our children
were crazy about him. Cassius was simply a likeable, friendly,
clean-cut, down-to-earth youngster. I noticed how alert he was
even in little details. I suspected that there was a plan in his
public clowning. I suspected, and he confirmed to me, that he
was doing everything possible to con and ‘‘psyche’’ Sonny Lis-
ton into coming into the nng angry, poorly trained, and over-
confident, expecting another of his vaunted one-round
knockouts. Not only was Cassius receptive to advice, he solic-
ited it. Primarily, I impressed upon him to what a great extent
a public figure’s success depends upon how alert and knowl-
edgeable he is to the true natures and to the true motives of all
of the people who flock around him. I warned him about the
‘‘foxes,’’ his expression for the aggressive, cute young females
who flocked after him; I told Cassius that instead of ‘‘foxes,’’
they really were wolves.

ouT 311

This was Betty’s first vacation since we had married. And our
three girls romped and played with the heavyweight contender.

I don’t know what I might have done if I had stayed in New
York during that crucial time—besieged by insistently ringing
telephones, and by the press, and by ail of the other people so
anxious to gloat, to speculate and to ““commiserate.”’

I was in a state of emotional shock. I was like someone who
for twelve years had had an inseparable, beautiful marnage—
and then suddenly one morning at breakfast the marriage partner
had thrust across the table some divorce papers.

I felt as though something in nature had failed, like the sun,
or the stars. It was that incredible a phenomenon to me—
something too stupendous to conceive. I am not sparing myself.
Around Cassius Clay’s fight camp, around the Hampton House
Motel where my family was staying, I talked with my own wife,
and with other people, and actually I was only mouthing words
that really meant nothing to me. Whatever I was saying at any
time was being handled by a small corner of my mind. The rest
of my mind was filled with a parade of a thousand and one
different scenes from the past twelve years . . . scenes in the
Muslim mosques . . . scenes with Mr. Muhammad . . . scenes
with Mr. Muhammad’s family . . . scenes with Muslims, in-
dividually, as my audiences, and at our social gatherings .. .
and scenes with the white man in audiences, and the press.

I walked, I talked, I functioned. At the Cassius Clay fight
camp, I told the various sportswriters repeatedly what I gradu-
ally had come to know within myself was a lie—that I would be
reinstated within ninety days. But I could not yet let myself
psychologically face what I knew: that already the Nation of
Islam and I were physically divorced. Do you understand what
I mean? A judge’s signature on a piece of paper can grant to a
couple a physical divorce—but for either of them, or maybe for
both of them, if they have been a very close marriage team, to
actually become psychologically divorced from each other might
take years.

But in the physical divorce, I could not evade the obvious
Strategy and plotting coming out of Chicago to eliminate me
from the Nation of Islam . . . if not from this world. And I felt
that I perceived the anatomy of the plotting.

Any Muslim would have known that my ‘‘chickens coming

312 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

home to roost’’ statement had been only an excuse to put into
action the plan for getting me out. And step one had been already
taken: the Muslims were given the impression that I had rebelled
against Mr. Muhammad. I could now anticipate step two: I
would remain ‘‘suspended’’ (and later I would be ‘‘isolated’’)
indefinitely. Step three would be either to provoke some Muslim
ignorant of the truth to take it upon himself to kill me as a
‘religious duty’’—or to ‘‘isolate’’ me so that I would gradually
disappear from the public scene.

The only person who knew was my wife. I never would have
dreamed that I would ever depend so much upon any woman
for strength as I now leaned upon Betty. There was no exchange
between us; Betty said nothing, being the caliber of wife that
she is, with the depth of understanding that she has—but I could
feel the envelopment of her comfort. I knew that she was as
faithful a servant of Allah as I was, and I knew that whatever
happened, she was with me.

The death talk was not my fear. Every second of my twelve
years with Mr. Muhammad, I had been ready to lay down my
life for him. The thing to me worse than death was the betrayal.
I could conceive death. I couldn’t conceive betrayal—not of the
loyalty which I had given to the Nation of Islam, and to Mr.
Muhammad. During the previous twelve years, if Mr. Muham-
mad had committed any civil crime punishable by death, I would
have said and tried to prove that I did it—to save him—and I
would have gone to the electric chair, as Mr. Muhammad’s
servant.

There as Cassius Clay’s guest in Miami, I tried desperately
to push my mind off my troubles and onto the Nation’s troubles.
I still struggled to persuade myself that Mr. Muhammad had
been fulfilling prophecy. Because I actually had believed that if
Mr. Muhammad was not God, then he surely stood next to God.

What began to break my faith was that, try as I might, I
couldn’t hide, I couldn’t evade, that Mr. Muhammad, instead
of facing what he had done before his followers, as a human
weakness or as fulfillment of prophecy—which I sincerely be-
lieve that Muslims would have understood, or at least they would
have accepted—Mr. Muhammad had, instead, been willing to
hide, to cover up what he had done.

That was my major blow.

our 313

That was how I first began to realize that I had believed in
Mr. Muhammad more than he believed in himself.

And that was how, after twelve years of never thinking for as
much as five minutes about myself, I became able finally to
muster the nerve, and the strength, to start facing the facts, to
think for myself.

Briefly I left Florida to return Betty and the children to our
Long Island home. I learned that the Chicago Muslim officials
were further displeased with me because of the newspaper re-
ports of me in the Cassius Clay camp. They felt that Cassius
hadn’t a prayer of a chance to win. They felt the Nation would
be embarrassed through my linking the Muslim image with him.
(I don’t know if the champion today cares to remember that most
newspapers in America were represented at the pre-fight camp—
except Muhammad Speaks. Even though Cassius was a Muslim
brother, the Muslim newspaper didn’t consider his fight worth
covering.)

I flew back to Miami feeling that it was Allah’s intent for me
to help Cassius prove Islam’s superiority before the world—
through proving that mind can win over brawn. I don’t have to
remind you of how people everywhere scoffed at Cassius Clay’s
chances of beating Liston.

This time, I brought from New York with me some photo-
graphs of Floyd Patterson and Sonny Liston in their fight camps,
with white priests as their ‘‘spiritual advisors.’’ Cassius Clay,
being a Muslim, didn’t need to be told how white Christianity
had dealt with the American black man. ‘‘This fight is the truth,”’
I told Cassius. ‘‘It’s the Cross and the Crescent fighting in a
prize ring—for the first time. It’s a modern Crusades—a Chnis-
tian and a Muslim facing each other with television to beam it
off Telstar for the whole world to see what happens!’’ I told
Cassius, ‘‘Do you think Allah has brought about all this intend-
ing for you to leave the ring as anything but the champion?”’
(You may remember that at the weighing-in, Cassius was yell-
ing such things as ‘‘It is prophesied for me to be successful! I
cannot be beaten!’’)

Sonny Liston’s handlers and advisors had him fighting harder
to ‘‘integrate’’ than he was training to meet Cassius. Liston
finally had managed to rent a big, fine house over in a rich, wall-
to-wall white section. To give you an idea, the owner of the

314 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

neighboring house was the New York Yankees baseball club
owner, Dan Topping. In the early evenings, when Cassius and
I would sometimes walk where the black people lived, those
Negroes’ mouths would hang open in surprise that he was among
them instead of whites as most black champions preferred. Again
and again, Cassius startled those Negroes, telling them, ‘‘ You’re
my own kind. I get my strength from being around my own
black people.’’

What Sonny Liston was about to meet, in fact, was one of the
most awesome frights that ever can confront any person—one
who worships Allah, and who is completely without fear.

Among over eight thousand other seat holders in Miami’s big
Convention Hall, I received Seat Number Seven. Seven has
always been my favorite number. It has followed me throughout
my life. I took this to be Allah’s message confirming to me that
Cassius Clay was going to win. Along with Cassius, I really
was more worried about how his brother Rudolph was going to
do, fighting his first pro fight in the preliminaries.

While Rudolph was winning a four-round decision over a
Florida Negro named ‘‘Chip’’ Johnson, Cassius stood at the rear
of the auditorium watching calmly, dressed in a black tuxedo.
After all of his months of antics, after the weighing-in act that
Cassius had put on, this calmness should have tipped off some
of the sportswriters who were predicting Clay’s slaughter.

Then Cassius disappeared, dressing to meet Liston. AS we
had agreed, I joined him in a silent prayer for Allah’s blessings.
Finally, he and Liston were in their comers in the ring. I folded
my arms and tried to appear the coolest man in the place, be-
cause a television camera can show you looking like a fool yell-
ing at a prizefight.

Except for whatever chemical it was that got into Cassius’
eyes and blinded him temporarily in the fourth and fifth rounds,
the fight went according to his plan. He evaded Liston’s pow-
erful punches. The third round automatically began the tiring of
the aging Liston, who was overconfidently trained to go only
two rounds. Then, desperate, Liston lost. The secret of one of
fight history’s greatest upsets was that months before that night,
Clay had out-thought Liston.

There probably never has been as quiet a new-champion party.
The boyish king of the ring came over to my motel. He ate ice

ouT 315

cream, drank milk, talked with football star Jimmy Brown and
other friends, and some reporters. Sleepy, Cassius took a quick
nap on my bed, then he went back home.

We had breakfast together the next moming, just before the
press conference when Cassius calmly made the announcement
which burst into international headlines that he was a *’Black
Muslim.’’

But let me tell you something about that. Cassius never an-
nounced himself a member of any “‘Black Muslims.’’ The press
reporters made that out of what he told them, which was this:
‘‘T believe in the religion of Islam, which means I believe there
is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is His Apostle. This is the
same religion that is believed in by over seven hundred million
dark-skinned peoples throughout Africa and Asia.’’

Nothing in all of the furor which followed was more ridicu-
lous than Floyd Patterson announcing that as a Catholic, he
wanted to fight Cassius Clay—to save the heavyweight crown
from being held by a Muslim. It was such a sad case of a brain-
washed black Christian ready to do battle for the white man—
who wants no part of him. Not three weeks later, the newspapers
reported that in Yonkers, New York, Patterson was offering to
sell his $140,000 house for a $20,000 loss. He had ‘‘integrated”’
into a neighborhood of whites who had made his life miserable.
None were friendly. Their children called his children ‘‘nig-
gers.’’ One neighbor trained his dog to deface Patterson’s prop-
erty. Another erected a fence to hide the Negroes from sight. ‘‘I
tried, it just didn’t work,’’ Patterson told the press.

The first direct order for my death was issued through a
Mosque Seven Official who previously had been a close assis-
tant. Another previously close assistant of mine was assigned to
do the job. He was a brother with a knowledge of demolition;
he was asked to wire my car to explode when I tured the ig-
nition key. But this brother, it happened, had seen too much of
my total loyalty to the Nation to carry out his order. Instead, he
came to me. I thanked him for my life. I told him what was
really going on in Chicago. He was stunned almost beyond be-
lief.

This brother was close to others in the Mosque Seven circle
who might subsequently be called upon to eliminate me. He said

316 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

he would take it upon himself to enlighten each of them enough
so that they wouldn’t allow themselves to be used.

This first direct death-order was how, finally, I began to arrive
at my psychological divorce from the Nation of Islam.

I began to see, wherever I went—on the streets, in business
places, on elevators, sidewalks, in passing cars—the faces of
Muslims whom I knew, and I knew that any of them might be
waiting the opportunity to try and put a bullet into me.

I was racking my brain. What was I going to do? My life was
inseparably committed to the American black man’s struggle. I
was generally regarded as a “‘leader.’’ For years, I had attacked
so many so-called ‘‘black leaders’’ for their shortcomings. Now,
I had to honestly ask myself what I could offer, how I was
genuinely qualified to help the black people win their struggle
for human rights. I had enough experience to know that in order
to be a good organizer of anything which you expect to suc-
ceed—including yourself—you must almost mathematically an-
alyze cold facts.

I had, as one asset, I knew, an international image. No amount
of money could have bought that. I knew that if I said something
newsworthy, people would read or hear of it, maybe even around
the world, depending upon what it was. More immediately, in
New York City, where I would naturally base any operation, I
had a large, direct personal following of non-Muslims. This had
been building up steadily ever since I had led Muslims in the
dramatic protest to the police when our brother Hinton was
beaten up. Hundreds of Harlem Negroes had seen, and hundreds
of thousands of them had later heard how we had shown that
almost anything could be accomplished by black men who would
face the white man without fear. All of Harlem had seen how
from then on, the police gave Muslims respect. (This was during
the time that the Deputy Chief Inspector at the 28th Precinct had
said of me, ‘‘No one man should have that much power.’’)

Over the ensuing years, I’d had various kinds of evidence that
a high percentage of New York City’s black people responded
to what I said, including a great many who would not publicly
say so. For instance, time and again when I spoke at street
rallies, I would draw ten and twelve times as many people as
most other so-called ‘‘Negro leaders.’’ I knew that in any soci-
ety, a true leader is one who eams and deserves the following

ouT 317

he enjoys. True followers are bestowed by themselves, out of
their own volition and emotions. I knew that the great lack of
most of the big-named ‘‘Negro leaders’’ was their lack of any
true rapport with the ghetto Negroes. How could they have rap-
port when they spent most of their time ‘‘integrating’’ with white
people? I knew that the ghetto people knew that I never left the
ghetto in spirit, and I never left it physically any more than I
had to. I had a ghetto instinct; for instance, I could feel if tension
was beyond normal in a ghetto audience. And I could speak and
understand the ghetto’s language. There was an example of this
that always flew to my mind every time I heard some of the ‘“big
name’’ Negro “‘leaders’’ declaring they “‘spoke for’’ the ghetto
black people.

After a Harlem street rally, one of these downtown ‘‘leaders”’
and I were talking when we were approached by a Harlem hus-
tler. To my knowledge I’d never seen this hustler before; he said
to me, approximately: ‘‘Hey, baby! I dig you holding this all-

Originals scene at the track . . . I’m going to lay a vine under
the Jew’s balls for a dime—got to give you a play . . . Got the
shorts out here trying to scuffle up on some bread .. . Well,

my man, I’ll get on, got to go peck a little, and cop me some
z’s—’’ And the hustler went on up Seventh Avenue.

I would never have given it another thought, except that this
downtown ‘‘leader’’ was standing, staring after that hustler,
looking as if he’d just heard Sanskrit. He asked me what had
been said, and I told him. The hustler had said he was aware
that the Muslims were holding an all-black bazaar at Rockland
Palace, which is primarily a dancehall. The hustler intended to
pawn a suit for ten dollars to attend and patronize the bazaar.
He had very little money but he was trying hard to make some.
He was going to eat, then he would get some sleep.

The point I am making is that, as a ‘‘leader,’’ I could talk
over the ABC, CBS, or NBC microphones, at Harvard or at
Tuskegee; I could talk with the so-called *‘middle class’’ Negro
and with the ghetto blacks (whom all the other leaders just talked
about). And because I had been a hustler, I knew better than all
whites knew, and better than nearly all of the black ‘‘leaders’’
knew, that actually the most dangerous black man in America
was the ghetto hustler.

Why do I say this? The hustler, out there in the ghetto jungles,

318 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

has less respect for the white power structure than any other
Negro in North America. The ghetto hustler is internally re-
strained by nothing. He has no religion, no concept of morality,
no civic responsibility, no fear—nothing. To survive, he is out
there constantly preying upon others, probing for any human
weakness like a ferret. The ghetto hustler is forever frustrated,
restless, and anxious for some ‘‘action.’’ Whatever he under-
takes, he commits himself to it fully, absolutely.

What makes the ghetto hustler yet more dangerous is his
‘‘glamor’’ image to the school-dropout youth in the ghetto.
These ghetto teen-agers see the hell caught by their parents strug-
gling to get somewhere, or see that they have given up struggling
in the prejudiced, intolerant white man’s world. The ghetto teen-
agers make up their own minds they would rather be like the
hustlers whom they see dressed ‘‘sharp’’ and flashing money
and displaying no respect for anybody or anything. So the ghetto
youth become attracted to the hustler worlds of dope, thievery,
prostitution, and general crime and immorality.

It scared me the first time I really saw the danger of these
ghetto teen-agers if they are ever sparked to violence. One swel-
tering summer afternoon, I attended a Harlem street rally which
contained a lot of these teen-agers in the crowd. I had been in-
vited by some ‘‘responsible’’ Negro leaders who normally never
spoke to me; I knew they had just used my name to help them
draw a crowd. The more I thought about it on the way there,
the hotter I got. And when I got on the stand, I just told that
crowd in the street that I wasn’t really wanted up there, that my
name had been used—and I walked off the speaker’s stand.

Well, what did I want to do that for? Why, those young, teen-
age Negroes got upset, and started milling around and yelling,
upsetting the older Negroes in the crowd. The first thing you
know traffic was blocked in four directions by a crowd whose
mood quickly grew so ugly that I really got apprehensive. I got
up on top of a car and began waving my arms and yelling at
them to quiet down. They did quiet, and then I asked them to
disperse—and they did.

This was when it began being said that I was America’s only
Negro who ‘‘could stop a race not—or start one.’’ I don’t know
if I could do either one. But I know one thing: it had taught me
in a very few minutes to have a whole lot of respect for the

OUT 319

human combustion that is packed among the hustlers and their
young admirers who live in the ghettoes where the Northern
white man has sealed-off the Negro—away from whites—for a
hundred years.

The ‘‘iong hot summer’’ of 1964 in Harlem, in Rochester,
and in other cities, has given an idea of what could happen—
and that’s all, only an idea. For all of those nots were kept
contained within where the Negroes lived. You let any of these
bitter, seething ghettoes all over America receive the night ig-
niting incident, and become really inflamed, and explode, and
burst out of their boundaries into where whites live! In New
York City, you let enraged blacks pour out of Harlem across
Central Park and fan down the tunnels of Madison and Fifth and
Lexington and Park Avenues. Or, take Chicago’s South Side, an
older, even worse slum—you let those Negroes swarm down-
town. You let Washington, D.C.’s festering blacks head down
Pennsylvania Avenue. Detroit has already seen a peaceful mass-
ing of more than a hundred thousand blacks—think about that.
You name the city. Black social dynamite is in Cleveland, Phil-
adelphia, San Francisco, Los Angeles . . . the black man’s an-
ger is there, fermenting.

I’ve strayed off onto some of the incidents and situations which
have taught me to respect the danger in the ghettoes. I had been
trying to explain how I honestly evaluated my own qualifications
to be worthy of presenting myself as an independent ‘‘leader’’
among black men.

In the end, I reasoned that the decision already had been made
for me. The ghetto masses already had entrusted me with an
image of leadership among them. I knew the ghetto instinctively
extends that trust only to one who had demonstrated that he
would never sell them out to the white man. I not only had no
such intention—to sell out was not even in my nature.

I felt a challenge to plan, and build, an organization that could
help tu cure the black man in North America of the sickness
which has kept him under the white man’s heel.

The black man in North America was mentally sick in his
cooperative, sheeplike acceptance of the white man’s culture.

The black man in North America was spiritually sick because
for centuries he had accepted the white man’s Christianity—

320 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

which asked the black so-called Christian to expect no tme
Brotherhood of Man, but to endure the cruelties of the white so-
called Christians. Christianity had made black men fuzzy, neb-
ulous, confused in their thinking. It had taught the black man to
think if he had no shoes, and was hungry, ‘‘we gonna get shoes
and milk and honey and fish fries in Heaven.”’

The black man in North America was economically sick and
that was evident in one simple fact: as a consumer, he got less
than his share, and as a producer gave /east. The black American
today shows us the perfect parasite image—the black tick under
the delusion that he is progressing because he rides on the udder
of the fat, three-stomached cow that is white America. For in-
stance, annually, the black man spends over $3 billion for au-
tomobiles, but America contains hardly any franchised black
automobile dealers. For instance, forty per cent of the expensive
imported Scotch whisky consumed in America goes down the
throats of the status-sick black man; but the only black-owned
distilleries are in bathtubs, or in the woods somewhere. Or for
instance—a scandalous shame—in New York City, with over a
million Negroes, there aren’t twenty black-owned businesses
employing over ten people. It’s because black men don’t own
and control their own community’s retail establishments that
they can’t stabilize their own community.

The black man in North America was sickest of all politically.
He let the white man divide him into such foolishness as con-
sidering himself a black ‘‘Democrat,’’ a black ‘‘Republican,”’
a black “‘Conservative,’’ or a black ‘‘Liberal’’ . . . when a ten-
million black vote bloc could be the deciding balance of power
in American politics, because the white man’s vote is almost
always evenly divided. The polls are one place where every
black man could fight the black man’s cause with dignity, and
with the power and the tools that the white man understands,
and respects, and fears, and cooperates with. Listen, let me tell
you something! If a black bloc committee told Washington’s
worst “‘nigger-hater,’’ ‘“We represent ten million votes,’’ why,
that ‘‘nigger-hater’’ would leap up: ‘‘Well, how are you? Come
on in here!’’ Why, if the Mississippi black man voted in a bloc,
Eastland would pretend to be more liberal than Jacob Javits—or
Eastland would not survive in his office. Why else is it that racist
politicians fight to keep black men from the polls?

our 321

Whenever any group can vote in a bloc, and decide the out-
come of elections, and it fails to do this, then that group is
politically sick. Immigrants once made Tammany Hall the most
powerful single force in American politics. In 1880, New York
City’s first Irish Catholic Mayor was elected and by 1960 Amer-
ica had its first Irish Catholic President. America’s black man,
voting as a bloc, could wield an even more powerful force.

U.S. politics is ruled by special-interest blocs and lobbies.
What group has a more urgent special interest, what group needs
a bloc, a lobby, more than the black man? Labor owns one of
Washington’s largest non-government buildings—situated where
they can literally watch the White House—and no political move
is made that doesn’t involve how Labor feels about it. A lobby
got Big Oil its depletion allowance. The farmer, through his
lobby, is the most government-subsidized special-interest group
in America today, because a million farmers vote, not as Dem-
ocrats, or Republicans, liberals, conservatives, but as farmers.

Doctors have the best lobby in Washington. Their special-
interest influence successfully fights the Medicare program that’s
wanted, and needed, by millions of other people. Why, there’s
a Beet Growers’ Lobby! A Wheat Lobby! A Cattle Lobby! A
China Lobby! Little countries no one ever heard of have their
Washington lobbies, representing their special interests.

The government has departments to deal with the special-
interest groups that make themselves heard and felt. A Depart-
ment of Agriculture cares for the farmers’ needs. There is a
Department of Health, Education and Welfare. There is a De-
partment of the Interior—in which the Indians are included. Is
the farmer, the doctor, the Indian, the greatest problem in Amer-
ica today? No—it is the black man! There ought to be a Pentagon-
sized Washington department dealing with every segment of the
black man’s problems.

Twenty-two million black men! They have given America
four hundred years of toil; they have bled and died in every
battle since the Revolution; they were in America before the
Pilgrims, and long before the mass immigrations—and they are
still today at the bottom of everything!

Why, twenty-two million black people should tomorrow give
a dollar apiece to build a skyscraper lobby building in Washing-
ton, D.C. Every morning, every legislator should receive a com-

322 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

munication about what the black man in America expects and
wants and needs. The demanding voice of the black lobby should
be in the ears of every legislator who votes on any issue.

The cornerstones of this country’s operation are economic and
political strength and power. The black man doesn’t have the
economic strength—and it will take time for him to build it. But
right now the American black man has the political strength and
power to change his destiny overnight.

It was a big order—the organization I was creating in my
mind, one which would help to challenge the American black
man to gain his human rights, and to cure his mental, spiritual,
economic, and political sicknesses. But if you ever intend to do
anything worthwhile, you have to start with a worthwhile plan.

Substantially, as I saw it, the organization I hoped to build
would differ from the Nation of Islam in that it would embrace
all faiths of black men, and it would carry into practice what the
Nation of Islam had only preached.

Rumors were swirling, particularly in East Coast cities— what
was I going to do? Well, the first thing I was going to have to
do was to attract far more willing heads and hands than my own.
Each day, more militant, action brothers who had been with me
in Mosque Seven announced their break from the Nation of
Islam to come with me. And each day, I learned, in one or
another way, of more support from non-Muslim Negroes, in-
cluding a surprising lot of the ‘‘middle’’ and ‘‘upper class’’
black bourgeoisie, who were sick of the status-symbol charade.
There was a growing clamor: ‘‘When are you going to call a
meeting, to get organized?’’

To hold a first meeting, I arranged to rent the Carver Ballroom
of the Hotel Theresa, which is at the comer of 125th Street and
Seventh Avenue, which might be called one of Harlem’s fuse-
box locations.

The Amsterdam News reported the planned meeting and many
readers inferred that we were establishing our beginning mosque
in the Theresa. Telegrams and letters and telephone calls came
to the hotel for me, from across the country. Their general tone
was that this was a move that people had waited for. People I’d
never heard of expressed confidence in me in moving ways.

our 323

Numerous people said that the Nation of Islam’s stringent moral
restrictions had repelled them—and they wanted to join me.

A doctor who owned a small hospital telephoned long-distance
to join. Many others sent contributions—even before our poli-
cies had been publicly stated. Muslims wrote from other cities
that they would join me, their remarks being generally along the
lines that ‘‘Islam is too inactive’ . . . ‘“The Nation is moving
too slow.”’

Astonishing numbers of white people called, and wrote, of-
fering contributions, or asking could they join? The answer was,
no, they couldn’t join; our membership was all black—but if
their consciences dictated, they could financially help our con-
structive approach to America’s race problems.

Speaking-engagement requests came in—twenty-two of them
in one particular Monday morning’s mail. It was startling to me
that an unusual number of the requests came from groups of
white Christian ministers.

I called a press conference. The microphones stuck up before
me. The flashbulbs popped. The reporters, men and women,
white and black, representing media that reached around the
world, sat looking at me with their pencils and open notebooks.

I made the announcement: “‘I am going to organize and head
a new mosque in New York City known as the Muslim Mosque,
Inc. This will give us a religious base, and the spiritual force
necessary to md our people of the vices that destroy the moral
fiber of our community.

**Muslim Mosque, Inc. will have its temporary headquarters
in the Hotel Theresa in Harlem. It will be the working base for
an action program designed to eliminate the political oppression,
the economic exploitation, and the social degradation suffered
daily by twenty-two million Afro-Americans.’’

Then the reporters began firing questions at me.

It was not all as simple as it may sound. I went few places
without constant awareness that any number of my former broth-
ers felt they would make heroes of themselves in the Nation of
Islam if they killed me. I knew how Elijah Muhammad’s fol-
lowers thought; I had taught so many of them to think. I knew
that no one would kill you quicker than a Muslim if he felt that’s
what Allah wanted him to do.

324 ©THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

There was one further major preparation that I knew I needed.
I’d had it in my mind for a long time—as a servant of Allah.
But it would require money that I didn’t have.

I took a plane to Boston. I was turning again to my sister Ella.
Though at times I’d made Ella angry at me, beneath it all, since
I had first come to her as a teen-aged hick from Michigan, Ella
had never once really wavered from my corner.

‘*Ella,’’ I said, ‘‘I want to make the pilgrimage to Mecca.’’

Ella said, ‘‘How much do you need?’’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MECCA

The pilgrimage to Mecca, known as Hajj, is a religious obliga-
tion that every orthodox Muslim fulfills, if humanly able, at least
once in his or her lifetime.

The Holy Quran says it, ‘‘Pilgrimage to the Ka’ba is a duty
men owe to God; those who are able, make the joumey.”’

Allah said: ‘‘And proclaim the pilgrimage among men; they
will come to you on foot and upon each lean camel, they will
come from every deep ravine.”’

At one or another college or university, usually in the informal
gatherings after I had spoken, perhaps a dozen generally white-
complexioned people would come up to me, identifying them-
selves as Arabian, Middle Eastern or North African Muslims
who happened to be visiting, studying, or living in the United
States. They had said to me that, my white-indicting statements
notwithstanding, they felt that I was sincere in considering my-
self a Muslim—and they felt if I was exposed to what they al-
ways Called ‘“‘true Islam,’’ I would ‘‘understand it, and embrace
it.’’ Automatically, as a follower of Elijah Muhammad, I had
bridled whenever this was said.

But in the privacy of my own thoughts after several of these
experiences, I did question myself: if one was sincere in pro-
fessing a religion, why should he balk at broadening his
knowledge of that religion?

Once in a conversation I broached this with Wallace Muham-
mad, Elijah Muhammad’s son. He said that yes, certainly, a
Muslim should seek to learn all that he could about Islam. I had
always had a high opinion of Wallace Muhammad’s opinion.

325

326 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Those orthodox Muslims whom I had met, one after another,
had urged me to meet and talk with a Dr. Mahmoud Youssef
Shawarbi. He was described to me as an eminent, learned Mus-
lim, a University of Cairo graduate, a University of London
Ph.D., a lecturer on Islam, a United Nations advisor and the
author of many books. He was a full professor of the University
of Cairo, on leave from there to be in New York as the Director
of the Federation of Islamic Associations in the United States
and Canada. Several times, driving in that part of town, I had
resisted the impulse to drop in at the F.I.A. building, a brown-
stone at 1 Riverside Drive. Then one day Dr. Shawarbi and I
were introduced by a newspaperman.

He was cordial. He said he had followed me in the press; I
said I had been told of him, and we talked for fifteen or twenty
minutes. We both had to leave to make appointments we had,
when he dropped on me something whose logic never would get
out of my head. He said, ‘‘No man has believed perfectly until
he wishes for his brother what he wishes for himself.’’

Then, there was my sister Ella herself. I couldn’t get over
what she had done. I’ve said before, this is a strong, big, black,
Georgia-born woman. Her domineering ways had gotten her put
out of the Nation of Islam’s Boston Mosque Eleven; they took
her back, then she left on her own. Ella had started studying
under Boston orthodox Muslims, then she founded a school
where Arabic was taught! She couldn’t speak it, she hired teach-
ers who did. That's Ella! She deals in real estate, and she was
Saving up to make the pilgrimage. Nearly all night, we talked
in her living room. She told me there was no question about it;
it was more important that I go. I thought about Ella the whcle
flight back to New York. A strong woman. She had broken the
spirits of three husbands, more driving and dynamic than all of
them combined. She had played a very significant role in my
life. No other woman ever was strong enough to point me in
directions; I pointed women in directions. I had brought Ella
into Islam, and now she was financing me to Mecca.

Allah always gives you signs, when you are with Him, that
He is with you.

When I applied for a visa to Mecca at the Saudi Arabian Con-
sulate, the Saudi Ambassador told me that no Muslim converted
in America could have a visa for the Hajj pilgrimage without the

MECCA 327

signed approval of Dr. Mahmoud Shawarbi. But that was only the
beginning of the sign from Allah. When I telephoned Dr. Sha-
warbi, he registered astonishment. ‘‘I was just going to get in touch
with you,’”’ he said, ‘‘by all means come right over.’”’

When I got to his office, Dr. Shawarbi handed me the signed
letter approving me to make the Hajj in Mecca, and then a book.
It was The Eternal Message of Muhammad by Abd-Al-Rahman
Azzam.

The author had just sent the copy of the book to be given to me,
Dr. Shawarbi said, and he explained that this author was an
Egyptian-bom Saudi citizen, an international statesman, and one of
the closest advisors of Prince Faisal, the ruler of Arabia. ‘“He has
followed you in the press very closely.’’ It was hard for me to
believe.

Dr. Shawarbi gave me the telephone number of his son, Mu-
hammad Shawarbi, a student in Cairo, and also the number of
the author’s son, Omar Azzam, who lived in Jedda, ‘‘your last
stop before Mecca. Call them both, by all means.’’

I left New York quietly (little realizing that I was going to retum
noisily). Few people were told I was leaving at all. I didn’t want
some State Department or other roadblocks put in my path at the
last minute. Only my wife, Betty, and my three girls and a few
close associates came with me to Kennedy International! Airport.
When the Lufthansa Airlines jet had taken off, my two seatrow
mates and I introduced ourselves. Another sign! Both were Mus-
lims, one was bound for Cairo, as I was, and the other was bound
for Jedda, where I would be in a few days.

All the way to Frankfurt, Germany, my seatmates and I talked,
or I read the book I had been given. When we landed in Frank-
furt, the brother bound for Jedda said his warm good-bye to me
and the Cairo-bound brother. We had a few hours’ layover be-
fore we would take another plane to Cairo. We decided to go
sightseeing in Frankfurt.

In the men’s room there at the airport, I met the first American
abroad who recognized me, a white student from Rhode Island.
He kept eyeing me, then he came over. ‘‘Are you X?’’ I laughed
and said I was, I hadn’t ever heard it that way. He exclaimed,
‘You can’t be! Boy, I know no one will believe me when I tell
them this!’’ He was attending school, he said, in France.

The brother Muslim and I both were struck by the cordial

328 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

hospitality of the people in Frankfurt. We went into a lot of
shops and stores, looking more than intending to buy anything.
We'd walk in, any store, every store, and it would be Hello! Peo-
ple who never saw you before, and knew you were strangers. And
the same cordiality when we left, without buying anything.
In America, you walk in a store and spend a hundred dollars,
and leave, and you’re still a stranger. Both you and the clerks
act as though you’re doing each other a favor. Europeans act
more human, or humane, whichever the nght word is. My
brother Muslim, who could speak enough German to get by,
would explain that we were Muslims, and I saw something I
had already experienced when I was looked upon as a Muslim
and not as a Negro, right in America. People seeing you as a
Muslim saw you as a human being and they had a different look,
different talk, everything. In one Frankfurt store—a little shop,
actually—the storekeeper leaned over his counter to us and waved
his hand, indicating the German people passing by: ‘This way
one day, that way another day—’’ My Muslim brother explained
to me that what he meant was that the Germans would rise again.

Back at the Frankfurt airport, we took a United Arab Airlines
plane on to Cairo. Throngs of people, obviously Muslims from
everywhere, bound on the pilgrimage, were hugging and em-
bracing. They were of all complexions, the whole atmosphere
was of warmth and friendliness. The feeling hit me that there
really wasn’t any color problem here. The effect was as though
I had just stepped out of a prison.

I had told my brother Muslim friend that I wanted to be a
tourist in Cairo for a couple of days before continuing to Jedda.
He gave me his number and asked me to call him, as he wanted
to put me with a party of his friends, who could speak English,
and would be going on the pilgrimage, and would be happy to
look out for me.

So I spent two happy days sightseeing in Cairo. I was im-
pressed by the modern schools, housing developments for the
masses, and the highways and the industnialization that I saw. I
had read and heard that President Nasser’s administration had
built up one of the most highly industrialized countries on the
African continent. I believe what most surprised me was that in
Cairo, automobiles were being manufactured, and also buses.

I had a good visit with Dr. Shawarbi’s son, Muhammad Sha-

MECCA 329

warbi, a nineteen-year-old, who was studying economics and
political science at Cairo University. He told me that his father’s
dream was to build a University of Islam in the United States.

The friendly people I met were astounded when they learned
I was a Muslim—from America! They included an Egyptian
scientist and his wife, also on their way to Mecca for the Hajj,
who insisted I go with them to dinner in a restaurant in Heli-
opolis, a suburb of Cairo. They were an extremely well-informed
and intelligent couple. Egypt’s rising industrialization was one
of the reasons why the Western powers were so anti-Egypt, it
was showing other African countries what they should do, the
scientist said. His wife asked me, ‘‘Why are people in the world
starving when America has so much surplus food? What do they
do, dump it in the ocean?’’ I told her, ‘‘Yes, but they put some
of it in the holds of surplus ships, and in subsidized granaries
and refrigerated space and let it stay there, with a small army of
caretakers, until it’s unfit to eat. Then another army of disposal
people get rid of it to make space for the next surplus batch.”’
She looked at me in something like disbelief. Probably she
thought I was kidding. But the American taxpayer knows it’s
the truth. I didn’t go on to tell her that right in the United States,
there are hungry people.

I telephoned my Muslim friend, as he had asked, and the Hajj
party of his friends was waiting for me. I made it eight of us,
and they included a judge and an official of the Ministry of
Education. They spoke English beautifully, and accepted me
like a brother. I considered it another of Allah’s signs, that wher-
ever I turned, someone was there to help me, to guide me.

The literal meaning of Hajj in Arabic is to set out toward a
definite objective. In Islainic law, it means to set out for Ka’ba,
the Sacred House, and to fulfill the pilgrimage rites. The Cairo
airport was where scores of Hajj groups were becoming Muhrim,
pilgrims, upon entering the state of Ihram, the assumption of a
spiritual and physical state of consecration. Upon advice, I ar-
ranged to leave in Cairo all of my luggage and four cameras,
one a movie camera. I had bought in Cairo a small valise, just
big enough to carry one suit, shirt, a pair of underwear sets and
a pair of shoes into Arabia. Driving to the airport with our Hajj
group, I began to get nervous, knowing that from there in, it

330 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

was going to be watching others who knew what they were
doing, and trying to do what they did.

Entering the state of Ihram, we took off our clothes and put on
two white towels. One, the /zar, was folded around the loins. The
other, the Rida, was thrown over the neck and shoulders, leaving
the right shoulder and arm bare. A pair of simple sandals, the nal,
left the ankle-bones bare. Over the /zar waist-wrapper, a money
belt was wom, and a bag, something like a woman’s big handbag,
with a long strap, was for carrying the passport and other valuable
papers, such as the letter I had from Dr. Shawarbi.

Every one of the thousands at the airport, about to leave for
Jedda, was dressed this way. You could be a king or a peasant
and no one would know. Some powerful personages, who were
discreetly pointed out to me, had on the same thing I had on.
Once thus dressed, we all had begun intermittently calling out
‘‘Labbayka! Labbayka!’’ (Here I come, O Lord!) The airport
sounded with the din of Muhrim expressing their intention to
perform the journey of the Hajj.

Planeloads of pilgrims were taking off every few minutes, but
the airport was jammed with more, and their friends and rela-
tives waiting to see them off. Those not going were asking others
to pray for them at Mecca. We were on our plane, in the air,
when I learned for the first time that with the crush, there was
not supposed to have been space for me, but strings had been
pulled, and someone had been put off because they didn’t want
to disappoint an American Muslim. I felt mingled emotions of
regret that I had inconvenienced and discomfited whoever was
bumped off the plane for me, and, with that, an utter humility
and gratefulness that I had been paid such an honor and respect.

Packed in the plane were white, black, brown, red, and yel-
low people, blue eyes and blond hair, and my kinky red hair—
all together, brothers! All honoring the same God Allah, all in
turn giving equal honor to each other.

From some in our group, the word was spreading from seat
to seat that I was a Muslim from America. Faces turned, smiling
toward me in greeting. A box lunch was passed out and as we
ate that, the word that a Muslim from America was aboard got
up into the cockpit.

The captain of the plane came back to meet me. He was an
Egyptian, his complexion was darker than mine; he could have

MECCA 331

walked in Harlem and no one would have given him a second
glance. He was delighted to meet an American Muslim. When
he invited me to visit the cockpit, I jumped at the chance.

The co-pilot was darker than he was. I can’t tell you the feel-
ing it gave me. I had never seen a black man flying a jet. That
instrument panel: no one ever could know what all of those dials
meant! Both of the pilots were smiling at me, treating me with
the same honor and respect I had received ever since I left Amer-
ica. I stood there looking through the glass at the sky ahead of
us. In America, I had ridden in more planes than probably any
other Negro, and I never had been invited up into the cockpit.
And there I was, with two Muslim seatmates, one from Egypt,
the other from Arabia, all of us bound for Mecca, with me up
in the pilots’ cabin. Brother, I knew Allah was with me.

I got back to my seat. All of the way, about an hour’s flight, we
pilgrims were loudly crying out, ‘‘Labbayka! Labbayka!’’ The
plane landed at Jedda. It’s a seaport town on the Red Sea, the
arrival or disembarkation point for all pilgrims who come to Arabia
to go to Mecca. Mecca is about forty miles to the east, inland.

The Jedda airport seemed even more crowded than Cairo’s had
been. Our party became another shuffling unit in the shifting mass
with every race on earth represented. Each party was making its
way toward the long line waiting to go through Customs. Before
reaching Customs, each Hajj party was assigned a Mutawaf, who
would be responsible for transferring that party from Jedda to
Mecca. Some pilgrims cried ‘‘Labbayka!’’ Others, sometimes large
groups, were chanting in unison a prayer that I will translate, “‘I
submit to no one but Thee, O Allah, I submit to no one but Thee.
I submit to Thee because Thou hast no partner. All praise and
blessings come from Thee, and Thou art alone in Thy kingdom.”’
The essence of the prayer is the Oneness of God.

Only officials were not wearing the Jhram garb, or the white
skull caps, long, white, nightshirt-looking gown and the little
slippers of the Mutawaf, those who guided each pilgrim party,
and their helpers. In Arabic, an mmmm sound before a verb
makes a verbal noun, so ‘“‘Mutawaf’’ meant ‘‘the one who
guides’’ the pilgrims on the ‘‘Jawaf,’’ which is the circumam-
bulation of the Ka’ba in Mecca.

I was nervous, shuffling in the center of our group in the line
waiting to have our passports inspected. I had an apprehensive

332 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

feeling. Look what I’m handing them. I’m in the Muslim world,
right at The Fountain. I’m handing them the American passport
which signifies the exact opposite of what Islam stands for.

The judge in our group sensed my strain. He patted my shoul-
der. Love, humility, and true brotherhood was almost a physical
feeling wherever I turned. Then our group reached the clerks
who examined each passport and suitcase carefully and nodded
to the pilgrim to move on.

I was so nervous that when I tured the key in my bag, and
it didn’t work, I broke open the bag, fearing that they might
think I had something in the bag that I shouldn’t have. Then the
clerk saw that I was handing him an American passport. He held
it, he looked at me and said something in Arabic. My friends
around me began speaking rapid Arabic, gesturing and pointing,
trying to intercede for me. The judge asked me in English for
my letter from Dr. Shawarbi, and he thrust it at the clerk, who
read it. He gave the letter back, protesting—I could tell that. An
argument was going on, about me. I felt like a stupid fool,
unable to say a word, I couldn’t even understand what was being
said. But, finally, sadly, the judge turned to me.

I had to go before the Mahgama Sharia, he explained. It was
the Muslim high court which examined all possibly nonauthentic
converts to the Islamic religion seeking to enter Mecca. It was
absolute that no non-Muslim could enter Mecca.

My friends were going to have to go on to Mecca without me.
They seemed stricken with concem for me. And / was stricken. I
found the words to tell them, “‘Don’t worry, I'll be fine. Allah
guides me.’’ They said they would pray hourly in my behalf.
The white-garbed Mutawaf was urging them on, to keep schedule
in the airport’s human crush. With all of us waving, I watched
them go.

It was then about three in the morning, a Friday morning. I
never had been in such a jammed mass of people, but I never
had felt more alone, and helpless, since I was a baby. Worse,
Friday in the Muslim world is a rough counterpart of Sunday in
the Christian world. On Friday, all the members of a Muslim
community gather, to pray together. The event is called yaum
al-jumu’a—‘‘the day of gathering.’’ It meant that no courts were
held on Friday. I would have to wait until Saturday, at least.

An official beckoned a young Arab Mutawaf’s aide. In bro-

MECCA 333

ken English, the official explained that I would be taken to a
place night at the airport. My passport was kept at Customs. I
wanted to object, because it is a traveler’s first law never to get
separated from his passport, but I didn’t. In my wrapped towels
and sandals, I followed the aide in his skull cap, long white
gown, and slippers. I guess we were quite a sight. People pass-
ing us were speaking all kinds of languages. I couldn’t speak
anybody’s language. I was in bad shape.

Right outside the airport was a mosque, and above the airport
was a huge, dormitory-like building, four tiers high. It was semi-
dark, not long before dawn, and planes were regularly taking
off and landing, their landing lights sweeping the runways, or
their wing and tail lights blinking in the sky. Pilgrims from
Ghana, Indonesia, Japan, and Russia, to mention some, were
moving to and from the dormitory where I was being taken. I
don’t believe that motion picture cameras ever have filmed a
human spectacle more colorful than my eyes took in. We reached
the dormitory and began climbing, up to the fourth, top, tier,
passing members of every race on earth. Chinese, Indone-
sians, Afghanistanians. Many, not yet changed into the [hram
garb, still wore their national dress. It was like pages out of
the National Geographic magazine.

My guide, on the fourth tier, gestured me into a compartment
that contained about fifteen people. Most lay curled up on their
rugs asleep. I could tell that some were women, covered head
and foot. An old Russian Muslim and his wife were not asleep.
They stared frankly at me. Two Egyptian Muslims and a Persian
roused and also stared as my guide moved us over into a corner.
With gestures, he indicated that he would demonstrate to me the
proper prayer ritual postures. Imagine, being a Muslim minister,
a leader in Elijah Muhammad’s Nation of Islam, and not know-
ing the prayer ritual.

I tried to do what he did. I knew I wasn’t doing it right. I could
feel the other Muslims’ eyes on me. Western ankles won’t do what
Muslim ankles have done for a lifetime. Asians squat when they
sit, Westemers sit upnght in chairs. When my guide was down in
a posture, I tried everything I could to get down as he was, but
there I was, sticking up. After about an hour, my guide left, in-
dicating that he would return later.

I never even thought about sleeping. Watched by the Muslims,

334 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I kept practicing prayer posture. I refused to let myself think how
ridiculous I must have looked to them. After a while, though, I]
learned a little trick that would let me get down closer to the floor.
But after two or three days, my ankle was going to swell.

As the sleeping Muslims woke up, when dawn had broken, they
almost instantly became aware of me, and we watched each other
while they went about their business. I began to see what an im-
portant role the rug played in the overall cultural life of the Mus-
lims. Each individual had a small prayer rug, and each man and
wife, or large group, had a larger communal mg. These Muslims
prayed on their rugs there in the compartment. Then they spread
a tablecloth over the rug and ate, so the rug became the dining
room. Removing the dishes and cloth, they sat on the rug—a living
room. Then they curl up and sleep on the mg—a bedroom. In that
compartment, before I was to leave it, it dawned on me for the
first time why the fence had paid such a high price for Oriental
rugs when I had been a burglar in Boston. It was because so much
intricate care was taken to weave fine rugs in countries where rugs
were so culturally versatile. Later, in Mecca, I would see yet an-
other use of the rug. When any kind of dispute arose, someone
who was respected highly and who was not involved would sit on
a rug with the disputers around him, which made the rug a court-
room. In other instances it was a classroom.

One of the Egyptian Muslims, particularly, kept watching me
out of the corner of his eye. I smiled at him. He got up and
came over to me. ““Hel-lo—’* he said. It sounded like the Get-
tysburg Address. I beamed at him, ‘‘Hello!’’ I asked his name.
‘Name? Name?’’ He was trying hard, but he didn’t get it. We
tried some words on each other. I’d guess his English vocabu-
lary spanned maybe twenty words. Just enough to frustrate me.
I was trying to get him to comprehend anything. ‘‘Sky.’’ I’d
point. He’d smile. ‘‘Sky,’’ I’d say again, gesturing for him to
repeat it after me. He would. “‘Airplane. .. mg... foot...
sandal. . . eyes. . . .”’ Like that. Then an amazing thing hap-
pened. I was so glad I had some communication with a human
being, I was just saying whatever came to mind. I said ‘‘Mu-
hammad Ali Clay—’’ All of the Muslims listening lighted up
like a Christmas tree. ‘‘You? You?’’ My friend was pointing at
me. I shook my head, “‘No, no. Muhammad Ali Clay my
friend—friend!’’ They half understood me. Some of them didn’t

MECCA 335

understand, and that’s how it began to get around that I was
Cassius Clay, world heavyweight champion. I was later to learn
that apparently every man, woman and child in the Muslim world
had heard how Sonny Liston (who in the Muslim world had the
image of a man-eating ogre) had been beaten in Goliath-David
fashion by Cassius Clay, who then had told the world that his
name was Muhammad Ali and his religion was Islam and Allah
had given him his victory.

Establishing the rapport was the best thing that could have
happened in the compartment. My being an American Muslim
changed the attitudes from merely watching me to wanting to
look out for me. Now, the others began smiling steadily. They
came closer, they were frankly looking me up and down. In-
specting me. Very friendly. I was like a man from Mars.

The Mutawaf’s aide returned, indicating that I should go with
him. He pointed from our tier down at the mosque and I knew
that he had come to take me to make the morning prayer, E/
Sobh, always before sunrise. I followed him down, and we
passed pilgrims by the thousands, babbling languages, every-
thing but English. I was angry with myself for not having taken
the time to lear more of the orthodox prayer rituals before
leaving America. In Elijah Muhammad’s Nation of Islam, we
hadn’t prayed in Arabic. About a dozen or more years before,
when I was in prison, a member of the orthodox Muslim move-
ment in Boston, named Abdul Hameed, had visited me and had
later sent me prayers in Arabic. At that time, I had learned those
prayers phonetically. But I hadn’t used them since.

I made up my mind to let the guide do everything first and I
would watch him. It wasn’t hard to get him to do things first.
He wanted to anyway. Just outside the mosque there was a long
trough with rows of faucets. Ablutions had to precede praying.
I knew that. Even watching the Mutawaf’s helper, I didn’t get
it night. There’s an exact way that an orthodox Muslim washes,
and the exact way is very important.

I followed him into the mosque, just a step behind, watching.
He did his prostration, his head to the ground. I did mine. ‘‘Bi-
smi-llahi-r-Rahmain-r-Rahim—’’ (‘‘In the name of Allah, the
Beneficent, the Merciful—’’) All Muslim prayers began that
way. After that, I may not have been mumbling the right thing,
but I was mumbling.

336 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I don’t mean to have any of this sound joking. It was far from
a joke with me. No one who happened to be watching could tell
that I wasn’t saying what the others said.

After that Sunrise Prayer, my guide accompanied me back up
to the fourth tier. By sign language, he said he would retum
within three hours, then he left.

Our tier gave an excellent daylight view of the whole airport
area. I stood at the railing, watching. Planes were landing and
taking off like clockwork. Thousands upon thousands of people
from all over the world made colorful patterns of movement. I
saw groups leaving for Mecca, in buses, trucks, cars. I saw
some setting out to walk the forty miles. I wished that I could
start walking. At least, I knew how to do that.

I was afraid to think what might lie ahead. Would I be rejected
as a Mecca pilgrim? I wondered what the test would consist of,
and when I would face the Muslim high court.

The Persian Muslim in our compartment came up to me at
the rail. He greeted me, hesitantly, ‘‘Amer . . . American?’’
He indicated that he wanted me to come and have breakfast with
him and his wife, on their rug. I knew that it was an immense
offer he was making. You don’t have tea with a Muslim’s wife.
I didn’t want to impose, I don’t know if the Persian understood
or not when I shook my head and smiled, meaning ‘‘No,
thanks.’’ He brought me some tea and cookies, anyway. Until
then, I hadn’t even thought about eating.

Others made gestures. They would just come up and smile
and nod at me. My first friend, the one who had spoken a little
English, was gone. I didn’t know it, but he was spreading the
word of an American Muslim on the fourth tier. Traffic had
begun to pick up, going past our compartment. Muslims in the
Thram garb, or still in their national dress, walked slowly past,
smiling. It would go on for as long as I was there to be seen.
But I hadn’t yet learned that I was the attraction.

I have always been restless, and curious. The Mutawaf’s aide
didn’t return in the three hours he had said, and that made me
nervous. I feared that he had given up on me as beyond help. By
then, too, I was really getting hungry. All of the Muslims in the
compartment had offered me food, and I had refused. The trouble
was, I have to admit it, at that point I didn’t know if I could go

MECCA 337

for their manner of eating. Everything was in one pot on the dining-
room rug, and I saw them just fall nght in, using their hands.

I kept standing at the tier railing observing the courtyard be-
low, and I decided to explore a bit on my own. I went down to
the first tier. I thought, then, that maybe I shouldn’t get too far,
someone might come for me. So I went back up to our com-
partment. In about forty-five minutes, I went back down. I went
farther this time, feeling my way. I saw a little restaurant in the
courtyard. I went straight in there. It was jammed, and babbling
with languages. Using gestures, I bought a whole roasted chicken
and something like thick potato chips. I got back out in the
courtyard and I tore up that chicken, using my hands. Muslims
were doing the same thing all around me. I saw men at least
seventy years old bringing both legs up under them, until they
made a human knot of themselves, eating with as much aplomb
and satisfaction as though they had been in a fine restaurant with
waiters all over the place. All ate as One, and slept as One.
Everything about the pilgrimage atmosphere accented the One-
ness of Man under One God.

I made, during the day, several trips up to the compartment
and back out in the courtyard, each time exploring a little further
than before. Once, I nodded at two black men standing together.
I nearly shouted when one spoke to me in British-accented En-
glish. Before their party approached, ready to leave for Mecca,
we were able to talk enough to exchange that I was American
and they were Ethiopians. I was heartsick. I had found two
English-speaking Muslims at last—and they were leaving. The
Ethiopians had both been schooled in Cairo, and they were liv-
ing in Ryadh, the political capital of Arabia. I was later going
to learn to my surprise that in Ethiopia, with eighteen million
people, ten million are Muslims. Most people think Ethiopia is
Christian. But only its government is Christian. The West has
always helped to keep the Christian government in power.

I had just said my Sunset Prayer, El Maghrib; I was lying on
my cot in the fourth-tier compartment, feeling blue and alone,
when out of the darkness came a sudden light!

It was actually a sudden thought. On one of my venturings in
the yard full of activity below, I had noticed four men, officials,
seated at a table with a telephone. Now, I thought about seeing
them there, and with telephone, my mind flashed to the connec-

338 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

tion that Dr. Shawarbi in New York had given me, the telephone
number of the son of the author of the book which had been
given to me. Omar Azzam lived nght there in Jedda!

In a matter of a few minutes, I was downstairs and rushing to
where I had seen the four officials. One of them spoke functional
English. I excitedly showed him the letter from Dr. Shawarbi.
He read it. Then he read it aloud to the other three officials. *‘A
Muslim from America!’’ I could almost see it capture their
imaginations and curiosity. They were very impressed. I asked
the English-speaking one if he would please do me the favor of
telephoning Dr. Omar Azzam at the number I had. He was glad
to do it. He got someone on the phone and conversed in Arabic.

Dr. Omar Azzam came straight to the airport. With the four
officials beaming, he wrung my hand in welcome, a young, tall,
powerfully built man. I’d say he was six foot three. He had an
extremely polished manner. In America, he. would have been called
a white man, but—it struck me, hard and instantly—from the way
he acted, I had no feeling of him being a white man. ‘‘Why didn’t
you call before?’’ he demanded of me. He showed some identifi-
cation to the four officials, and he used their phone. Speaking in
Arabic, he was talking with some airport officials. ‘“Come!’’ he
said.

In something less than half an hour, he had gotten me re-
leased, my suitcase and passport had been retrieved from Cus-
toms, and we were in Dr. Azzam’s car, driving through the city
of Jedda, with me dressed in the Jhram two towels and sandals.
I was speechless at the man’s attitude, and at my own physical
feeling of no difference between us as human beings. I had heard
for years of Muslim hospitality, but one couldn’t quite imagine
such warmth. I asked questions. Dr. Azzam was a Swiss-trained
engineer. His field was city planning. The Saudi Arabian gov-
ernment had borrowed him from the United Nations to direct all
of the reconstruction work being done on Arabian holy places.
And Dr. Azzam’s sister was the wife of Prince Faisal’s son. I
was in a car with the brother-in-law of the son of the ruler of
Arabia. Nor was that all that Allah had done. ‘‘My father will
be so happy to meet you,’’ said Dr. Azzam. The author who
had sent me the book!

I asked questions about his father. Abd-Al-Rahman Azzam was
known as Azzam Pasha, or Lord Azzam, until the Egyptian rev-

MECCA 339

olution, when President Nasser eliminated all ‘‘Lord’’ and ‘‘No-
ble’’ titles. ‘‘He should be at my home when we get there,’’ Dr.
Azzam said. ‘‘He spends much time in New York with his United
Nations work, and he has followed you with great interest.”’

I was speechless.

It was early in the moming when we reached Dr. Azzam’s
home. His father was there, his father’s brother, a chemist, and
another friend—all up that early, waiting. Each of them em-
braced me as though I were a long-lost child. I had never seen
these men before in my life, and they treated me so good! I am
going to tell you that I had never been so honored in my life,
nor had I ever received such true hospitality.

A servant brought tea and coffee, and disappeared. I was urged
to make myself comfortable. No women were anywhere in view.
In Arabia, you could easily think there were no females.

Dr. Abd-Al-Rahman Azzam dominated the conversation.
Why hadn’t I called before? They couldn’t understand why I
hadn’t. Was I comfortable? They seemed embarrassed that I had
spent the time at the airport; that I had been delayed in getting
to Mecca. No matter how I protested that I felt no inconve-
nience, that I was fine, they would not hear it. ‘“You must rest,”’
Dr. Azzam said. He went to use the telephone.

I didn’t know what this distinguished man was doing. I had
no dream. When I was told that I would be brought back for
dinner that evening, and that, meanwhile, I should get back in
the car, how could I have realized that I was about to see the
epitome of Muslim hospitality?

Abd-Al-Rahman Azzam, when at home, lived in a suite at
the Jedda Palace Hotel. Because I had come to them with a letter
from a friend, he was going to stay at his son’s home, and let
me use his suite, until I could get on to Mecca.

When I found out, there was no use protesting: I was in the
suite; young Dr. Azzam was gone; there was no one to protest
to. The three-room suite had a bathroom that was as big as a
double at the New York Hilton. It was suite number 214. There
was even a porch outside, affording a beautiful view of the an-
cient Red Sea city.

There had never before been in my emotions such an impulse
to pray—and I did, prostrating myself on the living-room rug.

Nothing in either of my two careers as a black man in America

340 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

had served to give me any idealistic tendencies. My instincts
automatically examined the reasons, the motives, of anyone who
did anything they didn’t have to do for me. Always in my life,
if it was any white person, I could see a selfish motive.

But there in that hotel that morning, a telephone call and a
few hours away from the cot on the fourth-floor tier of the dor-
mitory, was one of the few times I had been so awed that I was
totally without resistance. That white man—at least he would
have been considered ‘‘white’’ in America—related to Arabia’s
ruler, to whom he was a close advisor, truly an international
man, with nothing in the world to gain, had given up his suite
to me, for my transient comfort. He had nothing to gain. He
didn’t need me. He had everything. In fact, he had more to lose
than gain. He had followed the American press about me. If he
did that, he knew there was only stigma attached to me. I was
supposed to have horns. I was a “‘racist.’’ I was ‘‘anti-white’’—
and he from all appearances was white. I was supposed to be a
criminal; not only that, but everyone was even accusing me of
using his religion of Islam as a cloak for my criminal practices
and philosophies. Even if he had had some motive to use me,
he knew that I was separated from Elijah Muhammad and the
Nation of Islam, my ‘‘power base,’’ according to the press in
America. The only organization that I had was just a few weeks
old. I had no job. I had no money. Just to get over there, I had
had to borrow money from my sister.

That morning was when I first began to reappraise the ‘‘white
man.’’ It was when I first began to perceive that ‘‘white man,”’
as commonly used, means complexion only secondarily; pri-
marily it described attitudes and actions. In America, ‘‘white
man’’ meant specific attitudes and actions toward the black man,
and toward all other non-white men. But in the Muslim world,
I had seen that men with white complexions were more genu-
inely brotherly than anyone else had ever been.

That moming was the start of a radical alteration in my whole
outlook about “‘white’’ men.

I should quote from my notebook here. I wrote this about
noon, in the hotel: “‘My excitement, sitting here, waiting to go
before the Hajj Committee, is indescribable. My window faces
to the sea westward. The streets are filled with the incoming
pilgrims from all over the world. The prayers are to Allah and

MECCA 341

verses from the Quran are on the lips of everyone. Never have
I seen such a beautiful sight, nor witnessed such a scene, nor
felt such an atmosphere. Although I am excited, I feel safe and
secure, thousands of miles from the totally different life that I
have known. Imagine that twenty-four hours ago, I was in the
fourth-floor room over the airport, surrounded by people with
whom I could not communicate, feeling uncertain about the
future, and very lonely, and then one phone call, following Dr.
Shawarbi’s instructions. I have met one of the most powerful
men in the Muslim world. I will soon sleep in his bed at the
Jedda Palace. I know that I am surrounded by friends whose
sincerity and religious zeal I can feel. I must pray again to thank
Allah for this blessing, and I must pray again that my wife and
children back in America will always be blessed for their sac-
rifices, too.””

I did pray, two more prayers, as I had told my notebook. Then
I slept for about four hours, until the telephone rang. It was young
Dr. Azzam. In another hour, he would pick me up to retum me
there for dinner. I tumbled words over one another, trying to
express some of the thanks I felt for all of their actions. He cut
me off. ‘‘Ma sha’a-llah’’—which means, “‘It is as Allah has
pleased.”’

J] seized the opportunity to run down into the lobby, to see it
again before Dr. Azzam arrived. When I opened my door, just
across the hall from me a man in some ceremonial dress, who
obviously lived there, was also headed downstairs, surrounded
by attendants. I followed them down, then through the lobby.
Outside, a small caravan of automobiles was waiting. My neigh-
bor appeared through the Jedda Palace Hotel’s front entrance
and people rushed and crowded him, kissing his hand. I found
out who he was: the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. Later, in the
hotel, I would have the opportunity to talk with him for about a
half-hour. He was a cordial man of great dignity. He was well
up on world affairs, and even the latest events in America.

I will never forget the dinner at the Azzam home. I quote my
notebook again: “‘I couldn’t say in my mind that these were
‘white’ men. Why, the men acted as if they were brothers of
mine, the elder Dr. Azzam as if he were my father. His fatherly,
scholarly speech. I felt like he was my father. He was, you could
tell, a highly skilled diplomat, with a broad range of mind. His

342 |THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

knowledge was so worldly. He was as current on world affairs
as some people are to what’s going on in their living room.

‘‘The more we talked, the more his vast reservoir of knowl-
edge and its variety seemed unlimited. He spoke of the racial
lineage of the descendants of Muhammad the Prophet, and he
showed how they were both black and white. He also pointed
out how color, the complexities of color, and the problems of
color which exist in the Muslim world, exist only where, and to
the extent that, that area of the Muslim world has been influ-
enced by the West. He said that if one encountered any differ-
ences based on attitude toward color, this directly reflected the
degree of Western influence.”’

I learned during dinner that while I was at the hotel, the Hajj
Committee Court had been notified about my case, and that in
the morning I should be there. And I was.

The judge was Sheikh Muhammad Harkon. The Court was
empty except for me and a sister from India, formerly a Protes-
tant, who had converted to Islam, and was, like me, trying to
make the Hajj. She was brown-skinned, with a small face that
was mostly covered. Judge Harkon was a kind, impressive man.
We talked. He asked me some questions, having to do with my
sincerity. I answered him as truly as I could. He not only recog-
nized me as a true Muslim, but he gave me two books, one in
English, the other in Arabic. He recorded my name in the Holy
Register of true Muslims, and we were ready to part. He told me,
‘‘T hope you will become a great preacher of Islam in America.”’
I said that I shared that hope, and I would try to fulfill it.

The Azzam family were very elated that I was qualified and
accepted to go to Mecca. I had lunch at the Jedda Palace. Then
I slept again for several hours, until the telephone awakened me.

It was Muhammad Abdul Azziz Maged, the Deputy Chief of
Protocol for Prince Faisal. ‘‘A special car will be waiting to take
you to Mecca, night after your dinner,’’ he told me. He advised
me to eat heartily, as the Hajj rituals require plenty of strength.

I was beyond astonishment by then.

Two young Arabs accompanied me to Mecca. A well-lighted,
modem tumpike highway made the trip easy. Guards at intervals
along the way took one look at the car, and the driver made a
Sign, and we were passed through, never even having to slow

MECCA 343

down. I was, all at once, thrilled, important, humble, and thank-
ful.

Mecca, when we entered, seemed as ancient as time itself.
Our car slowed through the winding streets, lined by shops on
both sides and with buses, cars, and trucks, and tens of thou-
sands of pilgrims from all over the earth were everywhere.

The car halted briefly at a place where a Mutawaf was waiting
for me. He wore the white skullcap and long nightshirt garb that
I had seen at the airport. He was a short, dark-skinned Arab,
named Muhammad. He spoke no English whatever.

We parked near the Great Mosque. We performed our ablu-
tions and entered. Pilgrims seemed to be on top of each other,
there were so many, lying, sitting, sleeping, praying, walking.

My vocabulary cannot describe the new mosque that was be-
ing built around the Ka’ba. I was thrilled to realize that it was
only one of the tremendous rebuilding tasks under the direction
of young Dr. Azzam, who had just been my host. The Great
Mosque of Mecca, when it 1s finished, will surpass the architec-
tural beauty of India’s Taj Mahal.

Carrying my sandals, I followed the Mutawaf. Then I saw the
Ka’ba, a huge black stone house in the middle of the Great
Mosque. It was being circumambulated by thousands upon thou-
sands of praying pilgrims, both sexes, and every size, shape,
color, and race in the world. I knew the prayer to be uttered
when the pilgrim’s eyes first perceive the Ka’ba. Translated, it
is “‘O God, You are peace, and peace derives from You. So
greet us, O Lord, with peace.’’ Upon entering the Mosque, the
pilgrim should try to kiss the Ka’ba if possible, but if the crowds
prevent him getting that close, he touches it, and if the crowds
prevent that, he raises his hand and cries out ‘‘Takbir!’’ (‘‘God
is great!’’) I could not get within yards. ‘‘Takbir!’”’

My feeling there in the House of God was a numbness. My
Mutawaf led me in the crowd of praying, chanting pilgrims,
moving seven times around the Ka’ba. Some were bent and
wizened with age; it was a sight that stamped itself on the brain.
I saw incapacitated pilgrims being carried by others. Faces were
enraptured in their faith. The seventh time around, I prayed two
Rak’a, prostrating myself, my head on the floor. The first pros-
tration, I prayed the Quran verse “‘Say He is God, the one and

344 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

only’’; the second prostration: ‘‘Say O you who are unbelievers,
I worship not that which you worship. .. .”’

As I prostrated, the Mutawaf fended pilgrims off to keep me
from being trampled.

The Mutawaf and I next drank water from the well of Zem
Zem. Then we ran between the two hills, Safa and Marwa,
where Hajar wandered over the same earth searching for water
for her child Ishmael.

Three separate times, after that, I visited the Great Mosque
and circumambulated the Ka’ba. The next day we set out after
sunrise toward Mount Arafat, thousands of us, crying in unison:
‘*Labbayka! Labbayka!’’ and ‘‘Allah Akbar!’’ Mecca is sur-
rounded by the crudest-looking mountains I have ever seen; they
seem to be made of the slag from a blast furnace. No vegetation
is on them at all. Arriving about noon, we prayed and chanted
from noon until sunset, and the asr (afternoon) and Maghrib
(sunset) special prayers were performed.

Finally, we lifted our hands in prayer and thanksgiving, re-
peating Allah’s words: ‘‘There is no God but Allah. He has no
partner. His are authority and praise. Good emanates from Him,
and He has power over all things.’’

Standing on Mount Arafat had concluded the essential rites
of being a pilgrim to Mecca. No one who missed it could con-
sider himself a pilgrim.

The Lhram had ended. We cast the traditional seven stones at
the devil. Some had their hair and beards cut. I decided that I was
going to let my beard remain. I wondered what my wife Betty,
and our little daughters, were going to say when they saw me with
a beard, when I got back to New York. New York seemed a
million miles away. I hadn’t seen a newspaper that I could read
since I left New York. I had no idea what was happening there.
A Negro rifle club that had been in existence for over twelve years
in Harlem had been ‘‘discovered’’ by the police; it was being
trumpeted that I was ‘*behind it.’’ Elijah Muhammad’s Nation of
Islam had a lawsuit going against me, to force me and my family
to vacate the house in which we lived on Long Island.

The major press, radio, and television media in America had
representatives in Cairo hunting all over, trying to locate me, to
interview me about the furor in New York that I had allegedly
caused—when I knew nothing about any of it.

MECCA 345

I only knew what I had left in America, and how it contrasted
with what I had found in the Muslim world. About twenty of us
Muslims who had finished the Hajj were sitting in a huge tent
on Mount Arafat. As a Muslim from America, I was the center
of attention. They asked me what about the Hajj had impressed
me the most. One of the several who spoke English asked; they
translated my answers for the others. My answer to that question
was not the one they expected, but it drove home my point.

I said, ‘‘The brotherhood! The people of all races, colors,
from all over the world coming together as one! It has proved
to me the power of the One God.”’

It may have been out of taste, but that gave me an opportunity,
and I used it, to preach them a quick little sermon on America’s
racism, and its evils.

I could tell the impact of this upon them. They had been aware
that the plight of the black man in America was ‘‘bad,’’ but they
had not been aware that it was inhuman, that it was a psycho-
logical castration. These people from elsewhere around the world
were shocked. As Muslims, they had a very tender heart for all
unfortunates, and very sensitive feelings for truth and Justice.
And in everything I said to them, as long as we talked, they
were aware of the yardstick that I was using to measure every-
thing—that to me the earth’s most explosive and pernicious evil
is racism, the inability of God’s creatures to live as One, espe-
cially in the Western world.

I have reflected since that the letter I finally sat down to com-
pose had been subconsciously shaping itself in my mind.

The color-blindness of the Muslim world’s religious society and
the color-blindness of the Muslim world’s human society: these
two influences had each day been making a greater impact, and an
increasing persuasion against my previous way of thinking.

The first letter was, of course, to my wife, Betty. I never had
a moment’s question that Betty, after initial amazement, would
change her thinking to join mine. I had known a thousand re-
assurances that Betty’s faith in me was total. I knew that she
would see what I had seen—that in the land of Muhammad and
the land of Abraham, I had been blessed by Allah with a new
insight into the true religion of Islam, and a better understanding
of America’s entire racial dilemma.

346 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

After the letter to my wife, I wrote next essentially the same
letter to my sister Ella. And I knew where Ella would stand. She
had been saving to make the pilgrimage to Mecca herself.

I wrote to Dr. Shawarbi, whose belief in my sincerity had
enabled me to get a passport to Mecca.

All through the night, I copied similar long letters for others
who were very close to me. Among them was Elijah Muham-
mad’s son Wallace Muhammad, who had expressed to me his
conviction that the only possible salvation for the Nation of
Islam would be its accepting and projecting a better understand-
ing of Orthodox Islam.

And I wrote to my loyal assistants at my newly formed Mus-
lim Mosque, Inc. in Harlem, with a note appended, asking that
my letter be duplicated and distributed to the press.

I knew that when my letter became public knowledge back in
America, many would be astounded—loved ones, friends, and
enemies alike. And no less astounded would be millions whom
I did not know—who had gained during my twelve years with
Elijah Muhammad a “‘hate’’ image of Malcolm X.

Even I was myself astounded. But there was precedent in my
life for this letter. My whole life had been a chronology of—
changes.

Here is what I wrote . . . from my heart:

“‘Never have I witnessed such sincere hospitality and the
overwhelming spirit of true brotherhood as is practiced by peo-
ple of all colors and races here in this Ancient Holy Land, the
home of Abraham, Muhammad, and all the other prophets of
the Holy Scriptures. For the past week, I have been utterly
speechless and spellbound by the graciousness I see displayed
all around me by people of all colors.

‘‘T have been blessed to visit the Holy City of Mecca. I have
made my seven circuits around the Ka’ba, led by a young Mu-
tawaf named Muhammad. I drank water from the well of Zem
Zem. I ran seven times back and forth between the hills of Mt.
Al-Safa and Al-Marwah. I have prayed in the ancient city of
Mina, and I have prayed on Mt. Arafat.

‘*There were tens of thousands of pilgrims, from all over the
world. They were of all colors, from blue-eyed blonds to black-
skinned Africans. But we were all participating in the same
ritual, displaying a spirit of unity and brotherhood that my

MECCA 347

experiences in America had led me to believe never could exist
between the white and the non-white.

‘*America needs to understand Islam, because this is the one
religion that erases from its society the race problem. Through-
out my travels in the Muslim world, I have met, talked to, and
even eaten with people who in America would have been con-
sidered ‘white’—but the ‘white’ attitude was removed from their
minds by the religion of Islam. I have never before seen sincere
and true brotherhood practiced by all colors together, irrespec-
tive of their color.

‘“You may be shocked by these words coming from me. But
on this pilgrimage, what I have seen, and experienced, has forced
me to re-arrange much of my thought-patterns previously held,
and to toss aside some of my previous conclusions. This was
not too difficult for me. Despite my firm convictions, I have
been always a man who tries to face facts, and to accept the
reality of life as new experience and new knowledge unfolds it.
I have always kept an open mind, which is necessary to the
flexibility that must go hand in hand with every form of intelli-
gent search for truth.

‘During the past eleven days here in the Muslim world, I have
eaten from the same plate, drunk from the same glass, and slept
in the same bed (or on the same rug)—while praying to the same
God—with fellow Muslims, whose eyes were the bluest of blue,
whose hair was the blondest of blond, and whose skin was the
whitest of white. And in the words and in the actions and in the
deeds of the ‘white’ Muslims, I felt the same sincerity that I felt
among the black African Muslims of Nigeria, Sudan, and Ghana.

‘We were truly all the same (brothers)—because their belief
in one God had removed the ‘white’ from their minds, the ‘white’
from their behavior, and the ‘white’ from their attitude.

‘‘I could see from this, that perhaps if white Americans could
accept the Oneness of God, then perhaps, too, they could accept
in reality the Oneness of Man—and cease to measure, and
hinder, and harm others in terms of their ‘differences’ in color.

‘“With racism plaguing America like an incurable cancer, the
so-called ‘Christian’ white American heart should be more re-
Ceptive to a proven solution to such a destructive problem. Per-
haps it could be in time to save America from imminent

348 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

disaster—the same destruction brought upon Germany by racism
that eventually destroyed the Germans themselves.

‘*Each hour here in the Holy Land enables me to have greater
spiritual insights into what is happening in America between
black and white. The American Negro never can be blamed for
his racial animosities—he is only reacting to four hundred years
of the conscious racism of the American whites. But as racism
leads America up the suicide path, I do believe, from the ex-
periences that I have had with them, that the whites of the
younger generation, in the colleges and universities, will see the
handwriting on the wall and many of them will turn to the spir-
itual path of truth—the only way left to America to ward off the
disaster that racism inevitably must lead to.

‘‘Never have I been so highly honored. Never have I been
made to feel more humble and unworthy. Who would believe
the blessings that have been heaped upon an American Negro?
A few nights ago, a man who would be called in America a
‘white’ man, a United Nations diplomat, an ambassador, a com-
panion of kings, gave me his hotel suite, his bed. By this man,
His Excellency Prince Faisal, who rules this Holy Land, was
made aware of my presence here in Jedda. The very next mom-
ing, Prince Faisal’s son, in person, informed me that by the will
and decree of his esteemed father, I was to be a State Guest.

‘‘The Deputy Chief of Protocol himself took me before the
Hajj Court. His Holiness Sheikh Muhammad Harkon himself
okayed my visit to Mecca. His Holiness gave me two books on
Islam, with his personal seal and autograph, and he told me that
he prayed that I would be a successful preacher of Islam in
America. A car, a driver, and a guide, have been placed at my
disposal, making it possible for me to travel about this Holy
Land almost at will. The government provides air-conditioned
quarters and servants in each city that I visit. Never would I
have even thought of dreaming that I would ever be a recipient
of such honors—honors that in America would be bestowed upon
a King—not a Negro.

‘* All praise is due to Allah, the Lord of all the Worlds.

‘Sincerely,

‘*E]-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz
**(Malcolm X)’’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EL-HAJJ MALIK EL-SHABAZZ

Prince Faisal, the absolute ruler of Arabia, had made me a guest
of the State. Among the courtesies and privileges which this
brought to me, especially—shamelessly—I relished the chauf-
feured car which toured me around in Mecca with the chauffeur-
guide pointing out sights of particular significance. Some of the
Holy City looked as ancient as time itself. Other parts of it
resembled a modern Miami suburb. I cannot describe with what
feelings I actually pressed my hands against the earth where the
great Prophets had trod four thousand years before.

‘*The Muslim from America’’ excited everywhere the most
intense curiosity and interest. I was mistaken time and again for
Cassius Clay. A local newspaper had printed a photograph of
Cassius and me together at the United Nations. Through my
chauffeur-guide-interpreter I was asked scores of questions about
Cassius. Even children knew of him, and loved him there in the
Muslim world. By popular demand, the cinemas throughout Af-
rica and Asia had shown his fight. At that moment in young
Cassius’ career, he had captured the imagination and the support
of the entire dark world.

My car took me to participate in special prayers at Mt. Arafat,
and at Mina. The roads offered the wildest drives that I had ever
known: nightmare traffic, brakes squealing, skidding cars, and’
horns blowing. (I believe that all of the driving in the Holy Land
is done in the name of Allah.) I had begun to learn the prayers
in Arabic; now, my biggest prayer difficulty was physical. The
unaccustomed prayer posture had caused my big toe to swell,
and it pained me.

349

350 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

But the Muslim world’s customs no longer seemed strange to
me. My hands now readily plucked up food from a common
dish shared with brother Muslims; I was drinking without hes-
itation from the same glass as others; I was washing from the
same little pitcher of water; and sleeping with eight or ten others
On a mat in the open. I remember one night at Muzdalifa with
nothing but the sky overhead I lay awake amid sleeping Muslim
brothers and I learned that pilgrims from every land—every
color, and class, and rank; high officials and the beggar alike—
all snored in the same language.

Ill bet that in the parts of the Holy Land that I visited a million
bottles of soft drinks were consumed—and ten million cigarettes
must have been smoked. Particularly the Arab Muslims smoked
constantly, even on the Hajj pilgrimage itself. The smoking evil
wasn’t invented in Prophet Muhammad’s days—if it had been,
I believe he would have banned it.

It was the largest Hajj in history, I was later told. Kasem
Gulek, of the Turkish Parliament, beaming with pride, informed
me that from Turkey alone over six hundred buses—over fifty
thousand Muslims—had made the pilgrimage. I told him that I
dreamed to see the day when shiploads and planeloads of Amer-
ican Muslims would come to Mecca for the Hajj.

There was a color pattern in the huge crowds. Once I hap-
pened to notice this, I closely observed it thereafter. Being from
America made me intensely sensitive to matters of color. I saw
that people who looked alike drew together and most of the time
stayed together. This was entirely voluntary; there being no other
reason for it. But Africans were with Africans. Pakistanis were
with Pakistanis. And so on. I tucked it into my mind that when
I returned home I would tell Americans this observation; that
where true brotherhood existed among all colors, where no one
felt segregated, where there was no ‘‘superiority’’ complex, no
‘inferiority’? complex—then voluntarily, naturally, people of
the same kind felt drawn together by that which they had in
common.

It is my intention that by the time of my next Hajj pilgrimage,
I will have at least a working vocabulary of Arabic. In my ig-
norant, crippled condition in the Holy Land, I had been lucky
to have met patient friends who enabled me to talk by interpret-
ing for me. Never before in my life had I felt so deaf and dumb

FIL-HA]J MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 351

as during the times when no interpreter was with me to tell me
what was being said around me, or about me, or even to me, by
other Muslims—before they learned that ‘‘the Muslim from
America’’ knew only a few prayers in Arabic and, beyond that,
he could only nod and smile.

Behind my nods and smiles, though, I was doing some
American-type thinking and reflection. I saw that Islam’s con-
versions around the world could double and triple if the color-
fulness and the true spiritualness of the Hajj pilgrimage were
properly advertised and communicated to the outside world. I
saw that the Arabs are poor at understanding the psychology of
non-Arabs and the importance of public relations. The Arabs
said ‘‘insha Allah’’ (‘‘God willing’’)—then they waited for con-
verts. Even by this means, Islam was on the march, but I knew
that with improved public relations methods the number of new
converts turning to Allah could be turned into millions.

Constantly, wherever I went, I was asked questions about
America’s racial discrimination. Even with my background, I
was astonished at the degree to which the major single image of
America seemed to be discrimination.

In a hundred different conversations in the Holy Land with
Muslims high and low, and from around the world—and, later,
when I got to Black Africa—I don’t have to tell you never once
did I bite my tongue or miss a single opportunity to tell the truth
about the crimes, the evils and the indignities that are suffered
by the black man in America. Through my interpreter, I lost no
Opportunity to advertise the American black man’s real plight.
I preached it on the mountain at Arafat, I preached it in the busy
lobby of the Jedda Palace Hotel. I would point at one after
another—to bring it closer to home; ‘‘You... you. . . you—
because of your dark skin, in America you, too, would be called
‘Negro.’ You could be bombed and shot and cattle-prodded and
fire-hosed and beaten because of your complexions.”’

As some of the poorest pilgrims heard me preach, so did some
of the Holy World’s most important personages. I talked at length
with the blue-eyed, blond-haired Hussein Amini, Grand Mufti
of Jerusalem. We were introduced on Mt. Arafat by Kasem
Gulick of the Turkish Parliament. Both were learned men; both
were especially well-read on America. Kasem Gulick asked me
why I had broken with Elijah Muhammad. I said that I preferred

352 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

not to elaborate upon our differences, in the interests of preserv-
ing the American black man’s unity. They both understood and
accepted that.

I talked with the Mayor of Mecca, Sheikh Abdullah Eraif,
who when he was a journalist had criticized the methods of the
Mecca municipality—and Prince Faisal made him the Mayor,
to see if he could do any better. Everyone generally acknowl-
edged that Sheikh Eraif was doing fine. A filmed feature ‘‘The
Muslim From America’’ was made by Ahmed Horyallah and
his partner Essid Muhammad of Tunis’ television station. In
America once, in Chicago, Ahmed Horyallah had interviewed
Elijah Muhammad.

The lobby of the Jedda Palace Hotel offered me frequent siz-
able informal audiences of important men from many different
countries who were curious to hear the ‘‘American Muslim.”’ I
met many Africans who had either spent some time in America,
or who had heard other Africans’ testimony about America’s
treatment of the black man. I remember how before one large
audience, one cabinet minister from Black Africa (he knew more
about world-wide current events than anyone else I’ve ever met)
told of his occasionally traveling in the United States, North and
South, deliberately not wearing his national dress. Just recalling
the indignities he had met as a black man seemed to expose
some raw nerve in this highly educated, dignified official. His
eyes blazed in his passionate anger, his hands hacked the air:
**Why is the American black man so complacent about being
trampled upon? Why doesn’t the American black man fight to
be a human being?”’

A Sudanese high official hugged me, ‘‘You champion the
American black people!’’ An Indian official wept in his com-
passion ‘‘for my brothers in your land.’’ I reflected many, many
times to myself upon how the American Negro has been entirely
brainwashed from ever seeing or thinking of himself, as he
should, as a part of the non-white peoples of the world. The
American Negro has no conception of the hundreds of millions
of other non-whites’ concern for him: he has no conception of
their feeling of brotherhood for and with him.

It was there in the Holy Land, and later in Africa, that I
formed a conviction which I have had ever since—that a topmost
requisite for any Negro leader in America ought to be extensive

EL-HA]J MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 353

traveling in the non-white lands on this earth, and the travel
should include many conferences with the ranking men of those
lands. I guarantee that any honest, open-minded Negro leader
would return home with more effective thinking about alterna-
tive avenues to solutions of the American black man’s problem.
Above all, the Negro leaders would find that many non-white
officials of the highest standing, especially Africans, would tell
them—privately—that they would be glad to throw their weight
behind the Negro cause, in the United Nations, and in other
ways. But these officials understandably feel that the Negro in
America is so confused and divided that he doesn’t himself know
what his cause is. Again, it was mainly Africans who variously
expressed to me that no one would wish to be embarrassed trying
to help a brother who shows no evidence that he wants that
help—and who seems to refuse to cooperate in his own interests.

The American black ‘‘leader’s’’ most critical problem is lack
of imagination! His thinking, his strategies, if any, are always
limited, at least basically, to only that which is either advised,
or approved by the white man. And the first thing the American
power structure doesn’t want any Negroes to start is thinking
internationally.

I think the single worst mistake of the American black orga-
nizations, and their leaders, is that they have failed to establish
direct brotherhood lines of communication between the inde-
pendent nations of Africa and the American black people. Why,
every day, the black African heads of state should be receiving
direct accounts of the latest developments in the American black
man’s struggles—instead of the U.S. State Department’s re-
leases to Africans which always imply that the American black
man’s struggle is being ‘‘solved.’’

Two American authors, best-sellers in the Holy Land, had
helped to spread and intensify the concern for the American
black man. James Baldwin’s books, translated, had made a tre-
mendous impact, as had the book Black Like Me, by John Grif-
fin. If you’re unfamiliar with that book, it tells how the white
man Griffin blackened his skin and spent two months traveling
as a Negro about America; then Griffin wrote of the experiences
that he met. ‘‘A frightening experience!’’ I heard exclaimed
many times by people in the Holy World who had read the
popular book. But I never heard it without opening their thinking

354 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

further: “‘Well, if it was a frightening experience for him as
nothing but a make-believe Negro for sixty days—then you think
about what real Negroes in America have gone through for four
hundred years.”’

One honor that came to me, I had prayed for: His Eminence,
Prince Faisal, invited me to a personal audience with him.

As I entered the room, tall, handsome Prince Faisal came
from behind his desk. I never will forget the reflection I had at
that instant, that here was one of the world’s most important
men, and yet with his dignity one saw clearly his sincere hu-
mility. He indicated for me a chair opposite from his. Our in-
terpreter was the Deputy Chief of Protocol, Muhammad Abdul
Azziz Maged, an Egyptian-born Arab, who looked like a Har-
lem Negro.

Prince Faisal impatiently gestured when I began stumbling
for words trying to express my gratitude for the great honor he
had paid me in making me a guest of the State. It was only
Muslim hospitality to another Muslim, he explained, and I was
an unusual Muslim from America. He asked me to understand
above all that whatever he had done had been his pleasure, with
no other motives whatever.

A gliding servant served a choice of two kinds of tea as Prince
Faisal talked. His son, Muhammad Faisal, had ‘‘met’’ me on
American television while attending a Northern California uni-
versity. Prince Faisal had read Egyptian writers’ articles about
the American ‘‘Black Muslims.’’ “‘If what these writers say is
true, the Black Muslims have the wrong Islam,’’ he said. I ex-
plained my role of the previous twelve years, of helping to or-
ganize and to build the Nation of Islam. I said that my purpose
for making the Hajj was to get an understanding of true Islam.
‘*That is good,’’ Prince Faisal said, pointing out that there was
an abundance of English-translation literature about Islam—so
that there was no excuse for ignorance, and no reason for sincere
people to allow themselves to be misled.

The last of April, 1964, I flew to Beirut, the seaport capital
of Lebanon. A part of me, I left behind in the Holy City of
Mecca. And, in tum, I took away with me—forever—a part of
Mecca.

I was on my way, now, to Nigeria, then Ghana. But some

FL-HA]J MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 355

friends I had made in the Holy Land had urged and insisted that
I make some stops en route and I had agreed. For example, it
had been arranged that I would first stop and address the faculty
and the students at the American University of Beirut.

In Beirut’s Palm Beach Hotel, I luxuriated in my first long
sleep since I had left America. Then, I went walking—fresh
from weeks in the Holy Land: immediately my attention was
struck by the mannerisms and attire of the Lebanese women. In
the Holy Land, there had been the very modest, very feminine
Arabian women—and there was this sudden contrast of the half-
French, half-Arab Lebanese women who projected in their dress
and street manners more liberty, more boldness. I saw clearly
the obvious European influence upon the Lebanese culture. It
showed me how any country’s moral strength, or its moral
weakness, is quickly measurable by the street attire and attitude
of its women—especially its young women. Wherever the spir-
itual values have been submerged, if not destroyed, by an em-
phasis upon the material things, invariably, the women reflect
it. Witness the women, both young and old, in America—where
scarcely any moral values are left. There seems in most coun-
tries to be either one extreme or the other. Truly a paradise could
exist wherever material progress and spiritual values could be
properly balanced.

I spoke at the University of Beirut the truth of the American
black man’s condition. I’ve previously made the comment that
any experienced public speaker can feel his audience’s reac-
tions. As I spoke, I felt the subjective and defensive reactions
of the American white students present—but gradually their hos-
tilities lessened as I continued to present the unassailable facts.
But the students of African heritage—well, I’ll never get over
how the African displays his emotions.

Later, with astonishment, I heard that the American press
carried stories that my Beirut speech caused a ‘‘riot.’” What kind
of a riot? I don’t know how any reporter, in good conscience,
could have cabled that across the ocean. The Beirut Daily Star
front-page report of my speech mentioned no ‘“‘riot’’—because
there was none. When I was done, the African students all but
besieged me for autographs; some of them even hugged me.
Never have even American Negro audiences accepted me as I

356 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

have been accepted time and again by the less inhibited, more
down-to-earth Africans.

From Beirut, I flew back to Cairo, and there I took a train to
Alexandria, Egypt. I kept my camera busy during each brief
stopover. Finally I was on a plane to Nigeria.

During the six-hour flight, when I was not talking with the
pilot (who had been a 1960 Olympics swimmer), I sat with a
passionately political African. He almost shouted in his fervor.
‘‘When people are in a stagnant state, and are being brought out
of it, there is no time for voting!’’ His central theme was that
no new African nation, trying to decolonize itself, needed any
political system that would permit division and bickering.
‘*The people don’t know what the vote means! It is the job of
the enlightened leaders to raise the people’s intellect.’’

In Lagos, I was greeted by Professor Essien-Udom of the
Ibadan University. We were both happy to see each other. We
had met in the United States as he had researched the Nation of
Islam for his book, Black Nationalism. At his home, that eve-
ning, a dinner was held in my honor, attended by other profes-
sors and professional people. As we ate, a young doctor asked
me if I knew that New York City’s press was highly upset about
a recent killing in Harlem of a white woman—for which, ac-
cording to the press, many were blaming me at least indirectly.
An elderly white couple who owned a Harlem clothing store had
been attacked by several young Negroes, and the wife was
stabbed to death. Some of these young Negroes, apprehended
by the police, had described themselves as belonging to an or-
ganization they called ‘‘Blood Brothers.’’ These youths, alleg-
edly, had said or implied that they were affiliated with ‘‘Black
Muslims’’ who had split away from the Nation of Islam to join
up with me.

I told the dinner guests that it was my first word of any of it,
but that I was not surprised when violence happened in any of
America’s ghettoes where black men had been living packed
like animals and treated like lepers. I said that the charge against
me was typical white man scapegoat-seeking—that whenever
something white men disliked happened in the black commu-
nity, typically white public attention was directed not at the
cause, but at a selected scapegoat.

As for the ‘‘Blood Brothers,’’ I said I considered all Negroes

FL-HA]] MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 357

to be my blood brothers. I said that the white man’s efforts to
make my name poison actually succeeded only in making mil-
lions of black people regard me like Joe Louis.

Speaking in the Ibadan University’s Trenchard Hall, I urged
that Africa’s independent nations needed to see the necessity of
helping to bring the Afro-American’s case before the United
Nations. I said that just as the American Jew is in political,
economic, and cultural harmony with world Jewry, I was con-
vinced that it was time for all Afro-Americans to join the world’s
Pan-Africanists. I said that physically we Afro-Americans might
remain in America, fighting for our Constitutional rights, but
that philosophically and culturally we Afro-Americans badly
needed to ‘‘return’’ to Africa—and to develop a working unity
in the framework of Pan-Africanism.

Young Africans asked me politically sharper questions than
one hears from most American adults. Then an astonishing thing
happened when one old West Indian stood and began attacking
me—for attacking America. “‘Shut up! Shut up!’’ students
yelled, booing, and hissing. The old West Indian tried to express
defiance of them, and in a sudden mush a group of students sprang
up and were after him. He barely escaped ahead of them. I never
saw anything like it. Screaming at him, they ran him off the
campus. (Later, I found out that the old West Indian was married
to a white woman, and he was trying to get a job in some white-
influenced agency which had put him up to challenge me. Then,
I understood his problem.)

This wasn’t the last time I’d see the Africans’ almost fanatic
expression of their political emotions.

Afterward, in the Students’ Union, I was plied with questions,
and I was made an honorary member of the Nigerian Muslim
Students’ Society. Right here in my wallet is my card: ‘‘Alhadji
Malcolm X. Registration No. M-138.’’ With the membership,
I was given a new name: ‘‘Omowale.’’ It means, in the Yoruba
language, ‘‘the son who has come home.’’ I meant it when I
told them I had never received a more treasured honor.

Six hundred members of the Peace Corps were in Nigeria, I
learned. Some white Peace Corps members who talked with me
were openly embarrassed at the guilt of their race in America.
Among the twenty Negro Peace Corpsmen I talked with, a very
impressive fellow to me was Larry Jackson, a Morgan State

358 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

College graduate from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, who had joined
the Peace Corps in 1962.

I made Nigerian radio and television program appearances.
When I remember seeing black men operating their own com-
munications agencies, a thrill still rans up my spine. The re-
porters who interviewed me included an American Negro from
Newsweek magazine—his name was Williams. Traveling
through Africa, he had recently interviewed Prime Minister
Nkrumah.

Talking with me privately, one group of Nigerian officials
told me how skillfully the U.S. Information Agency sought to
spread among Africans the impression that American Negroes
were steadily advancing, and that the race problem soon would
be solved. One high official told me, ‘‘Our informed leaders and
many, many others know otherwise.’’ He said that behind the
‘‘diplomatic front’’ of every African U.N. official was recog-
nition of the white man’s gigantic duplicity and conspiracy to
keep the world’s peoples of African heritage separated—both
physically and ideologically—from each other.

‘In your land, how many black people think about it that
South and Central and North America contain over eighty mil-
lion people of African descent?’’ he asked me.

**The world’s course will change the day the African-heritage
peoples come together as brothers!”’

I never had heard that kind of global black thinking from any
black man in America.

From Lagos, Nigeria, I flew on to Accra, Ghana.

I think that nowhere is the black continent’s wealth and the
natural beauty of its people richer than in Ghana, which is so
proudly the very fountainhead of Pan-Africanism.

I stepped off the plane into a jarring note. A red-faced Amer-
ican white man recognized me; he had the nerve to come up
grabbing my hand and telling me in a molasses drawl that he
was from Alabama, and then he invited me to his home for
dinner!

My hotel’s dining room, when I went to breakfast, was full
of more of those whites—discussing Africa’s untapped wealth
as though the African waiters had no ears. It nearly ruined my
meal, thinking how in America they sicked police dogs on black
people, and threw bombs in black churches, while blocking the

EL-HAJ]J MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 359

doors of their white churches—and now, once again in the land
where their forefathers had stolen blacks and thrown them into
slavery, was that white man.

Right there at my Ghanaian breakfast table was where I made
up my mind that as long as I was in Africa, every time I opened
my mouth, I was going to make things hot for that white man,
grinning through his teeth wanting to exploit Africa again—it
had been her human wealth the last time, now he wanted Afni-
ca’s mineral wealth.

And I knew that my reacting as I did presented no conflict
with the convictions of brotherhood which I had gained in the
Holy Land. The Muslims of ‘‘white’’ complexions who had
changed my opinions were men who had showed me that they
practiced genuine brotherhood. And I knew that any American
white man with a genuine brotherhood for a black man was hard
to find, no matter how much he grinned.

The author Julian Mayfield seemed to be the leader of Gha-
na’s little colony of Afro-American expatriates. When I tele-
phoned Mayfield, in what seemed no time at all I was sitting in
his home surrounded by about forty black American expatriates;
they had been waiting for my arrival. There were business and
professional people, such as the militant former Brooklynites
Dr. and Mrs. Robert E. Lee, both of them dentists, who had
given up their United States’ citizenship. Such others as Alice
Windom, Maya Angelou Make, Victoria Garvin, and Leslie
Lacy had even formed a ‘‘Malcolm X Committee’’ to guide me
through a whirlwind calendar of appearances and social events.

In my briefcase here are some of the African press stories
which had appeared when it was learned that I was en route:

‘*Malcolm X’s name is almost as familiar to Ghanaians as the
Southern dogs, fire hoses, cattle prods, people sticks, and the
ugly, hate-contorted white faces... .”’

‘*Malcolm X’s decision to enter the mainstream of the strug-
gle heralds a hopeful sign on the sickeningly dismal scene of
brutalized, non-violent, passive resistance. . . .”’

‘‘An extremely important fact is that Malcolm X is the first
Afro-American leader of national standing to make an indepen-
dent trip to Africa since Dr. Du Bois came to Ghana. This may
be the beginning of a new phase in our struggle. Let’s make

360 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

sure we don’t give it less thought than the State Department is
doubtless giving it nght now.”’

And another: ‘‘Malcolm X is one of our most significant and
miltant leaders. We are in a battle. Efforts will be made to ma-
lign and discredit him. .. .”’

I simply couldn’t believe this kind of reception five thousand
miles from America! The officials of the press had even arranged
to pay my hotel expenses, and they would hear no objection that
I made. They included T. D. Baffoe, the Editor-in-Chief of the
Ghanaian Times, G. T. Anim, the Managing Director of the
Ghana News Agency; Kofi Batsa, the Editor of Spark and
the Secretary-General of the Pan-African Union of Journalists;
and Mr. Cameron Duodu; and others. I could only thank them
all. Then, during the beautiful dinner which had been prepared
by Julian Mayfield’s pretty Puerto Rican wife, Ana Livia (she
was in charge of Accra’s district health program), I was plied
with questions by the eagerly interested black expatriates from
America who had returned to Mother Africa.

I can only wish that every American black man could have
shared my ears, my eyes, and my emotions throughout the round
of engagements which had been made for me in Ghana. And
my point in saying this is not the reception that I personally
received as an individual of whom they had heard, but it was
the reception tendered to me as the symbol of the militant Amer-
ican black man, as I had the honor to be regarded.

At ajam-packed press club conference, I believe the very first
question was why had I split with Elijah Muhammad and the
Nation of Islam. The Africans had heard such rumors as that
Elijah Muhammad had built a palace in Arizona. I straightened
out that falsehood, and I avoided any criticism. I said that our
disagreement had been in terms of political direction and in-
volvement in the extra-religious struggle for human rights. I said
I respected the Nation of Islam for its having been a psycholog-
ically revitalizing movement and a source of moral and social
reform, and that Elijah Muhammad’s influence upon the
American black man had been basic.

I stressed to the assembled press the need for mutual com-
munication and support between the Africans and Afro-
Americans whose struggles were interlocked. I remember that
in the press conference, I used the word ‘‘Negro,’’ and I was

EL-HAJJ MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 361]

firmly corrected. ““The word is not favored here, Mr. Malcolm X.
The term Afro-American has greater meaning, and dignity.’’
I sincerely apologized. I don’t think that I said ‘‘Negro’’ again
as long as I was in Africa. I said that the 22 million Afro-
Americans in the United States could become for Africa a great
positive force—while, in turn, the African nations could and
should exert positive force at diplomatic levels against Ameni-
ca’s racial discrimination. I said, “‘All of Africa unites in op-
position to South Africa’s apartheid, and to the oppression in
the Portuguese territories. But you waste your time if you don’t
realize that Verwoerd and Salazar, and Britain and France, never
could last a day if it were not for United States support. So until
you expose the man in Washington, D.C., you haven’t accom-
plished anything.’”’

I knew that the State Department’s G. Mennen Williams was
officially visiting in Africa. I said, ‘“Take my word for it—you
be suspicious of all these American officials who come to Africa
grinning in your faces when they don’t grin in ours back home.”’
I told them that my own father was murdered by whites in the
state of Michigan where G. Mennen Williams once was the
Governor.

I was honored at the Ghana Club, by more press representa-
tives and dignitaries. I was the guest at the home of the late
black American author Richard Wright’s daughter, beautiful,
slender, soft-voiced Julia, whose young French husband pub-
lishes a Ghanaian paper. Later, in Paris, I was to meet Richard
Wright’s widow, Ellen, and a younger daughter, Rachel.

I talked with Ambassadors, at their embassies. The Algerian
Ambassador impressed me as a man who was dedicated totally
to militancy, and to world revolution, as the way to solve the
problems of the world’s oppressed masses. His perspective was
attuned not just to Algerians, but to include the Afro-Americans
and all others anywhere who were oppressed. The Chinese Am-
bassador, Mr. Huang Ha, a most perceptive, and also most mil-
itant man, focused upon the efforts of the West to divide Africans
from the peoples of African heritage elsewhere. The Nigerian
Ambassador was deeply concerned about the Afro-Americans’
plight in America. He had personal knowledge of their suffering,
having lived and studied in Washington, D.C. Similarly, the
most sympathetic Mali Ambassador had been in New York at

362 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

the United Nations. I breakfasted with Dr. Makonnen of British
Guiana. We discussed the need for the type of Pan-African unity
that would also include the Afro-Americans. And I had a talk
in depth about Afro-American problems with Nana Nketsia, the
Ghanaian Minister of Culture.

Once when I returned to my hotel, a New York City call was
waiting for me from Mal Goode of the American Broadcasting
Company. Over the telephone Mal Goode asked me questions
that I answered for his beeping tape recorder, about the ‘‘Blood
Brothers’’ in Harlem, the rifle clubs for Negroes, and other sub-
jects with which I was being kept identified in the American press.

In the University of Ghana’s Great Hall, I addressed the larg-
est audience that I would in Africa—mostly Africans, but also
numerous whites. Before this audience, I tried my best to de-
molish the false image of American race relations that I knew
was spread by the U.S. Information Agency. I tried to impress
upon them all the true picture of the Afro-American’s plight at
the hands of the white man. I worked on those whites there in
the audience:

‘‘l’ve never seen sO many whites so nice to so many blacks
as you white people here in Africa. In America, Afro-Americans
are struggling for integration. They should come here—to Af-
rica—and see how you grin at Africans. You’ve really got in-
tegration here. But can you tell the Africans that in America you
grin at the black people? No, you can’t! And you don’t honestly
like these Africans any better, either—but what you do like is
the minerals Africa has under her soil. . . .”’

Those whites out in the audience tumed pink and red. They
knew I was telling the truth. “*I’m not anti-American, and I
didn’t come here to condemn America—I want to make that very
clear!’’ I told them. ‘*I came here to tell the truth—and if the
truth condemns America, then she stands condemned!”’

One evening I met most of the officials in Ghana—all of those
with whom I had previously talked, and more—at a party that
was given for me by the Honorable Kofi Baako, the Ghanaian
Minister of Defense, and the Leader of the National Assembly.
I was told that this was the first time such an honor was accorded
to a foreigner since Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois had come to Ghana.
There was music, dancing, and fine Ghanaian food. Several
persons at the party were laughing among themselves, saying

EL-HAJ]J MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 363

that at an earlier party that day, U.S. Ambassador Mahomey
was knocking himself out being exceptionally friendly and jo-
vial. Some thought that he was making a strong effort to coun-
teract the truth about America that I was telling every chance I
got.

Then an invitation came to me which exceeded my wildest
dream. I would never have imagined that I would actually have
an opportunity to address the members of the Ghanaian Parlia-
ment!

I made my remarks brief—but I made them strong: ‘‘How can
you condemn Portugal and South Africa while our black people
in America are being bitten by dogs and beaten with clubs?’’ I
said I felt certain that the only reason black Africans—our black
brothers—could be so silent about what happened in America
was that they had been misinformed by the American govern-
ment’s propaganda agencies.

At the end of my talk, I heard ‘‘Yes! We support the Afro-
American. . . morally, physically, materially if necessary!”’

In Ghana—or in all of black Africa—my highest single honor
was an audience at the Castle with Osagyefo Dr. Kwame Nkru-
mah.

Before seeing him, I was searched most thoroughly. I re-
spected the type of security the Ghanaians erect around their
leader. It gave me that much more respect for independent black
men. Then, as I entered Dr. Nkrumah’s long office, he came
out from behind his desk at the far end. Dr. Nkrumah wore
ordinary dress, his hand was extended and a smile was on his
sensitive face. I pumped his hand. We sat on a couch and talked.
I knew that he was particularly well-informed on the Afro-
American’s plight, as for years he had lived and studied in
America. We discussed the unity of Africans and peoples of
African descent. We agreed that Pan-Africanism was the key
also to the problems of those of African heritage. I could feel
the warm, likeable and very down-to-earth qualities of Dr.
Nkrumah. My time with him was up all too soon. I promised
faithfully that when I returned to the United States, I would relay
to Afro-Americans his personal warm regards.

That afternoon, thirty-nine miles away in Winneba, I spoke
at the Kwame Nkrumah Ideological Institute—where two hun-
dred students were being trained to carry forward Ghana’s in-

364 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

tellectual revolution, and here again occurred one of those
astounding demonstrations of the young African’s political fer-
vor. After I had spoken, during the question-and-answer period,
some young Afro-American stood up, whom none there seemed
to know. ‘‘I am an American Negro,’’ he announced himself.
Vaguely, he defended the American white man. The African
students booed and harassed him. Then instantly when the meet-
ing was over, they comered this fellow with verbal abuse, ‘‘Are
you an agent of Rockefeller?’’ . . . ‘‘Stop corrupting our chil-
dren!’’ (The fellow had tumed out to be a local secondary school
teacher, placed in the job by an American agency.) . . . ‘““Come
to this Institute for some orientation!’’ Temporarily, a teacher
rescued the fellow—but then the students rushed him and drove
him away, shouting, ‘“‘Stooge!’’. . . ‘‘C.I.A.’’. . . ‘“American
agent!”’

Chinese Ambassador and Mrs. Huang Hua gave a state dinner
in my honor. The guests included the Cuban and the Algerian
ambassadors, and also it was here that I met Mrs. W. E. B. Du
Bois. After the excellent dinner, three films were shown. One,
a color film, depicted the People’s Republic of China in cele-
bration of its Fourteenth Anniversary. Prominently shown in
this film was the militant former North Carolina Afro-American
Robert Williams, who has since taken refuge in Cuba after his
advocacy that the American black people should take up arms
to defend and protect themselves. The second film focused upon
the Chinese people’s support for the Afro-American struggle.
Chairman Mao Tse-tung was shown delivering his statement of
that support, and the film offered sickening moments of graphic
white brutality—police and civilian—to Afro-Americans who
were demonstrating in various U.S. cities, seeking civil rights.
And the final film was a dramatic presentation of the Algerian
Revolution.

The ‘*Malcolm X Committee’’ rushed me from the Chinese
Embassy dinner to where a soiree in my honor had already be-
gun at the Press Club. It was my first sight of Ghanaians dancing
the high-life. A high and merry time was being had by everyone,
and I was pressed to make a short speech. I stressed again the
need for unity between Africans and Afro-Americans. I cried
out of my heart, ‘‘Now, dance! Sing! But as you do—remember

EL-HAJJ MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 305

Mandela, remember Sobokwe! Remember Lumumba in his
grave! Remember South Africans now in jail!”’

I said, ‘“You wonder why / don’t dance? Because I want you
to remember twenty-two million Afro-Americans in the U.S.!”’

But I sure felt like dancing! The Ghanaians performed the
high-life as if possessed. One pretty African girl sang “‘Blue
Moon’’ like Sarah Vaughan. Sometimes the band sounded like
Milt Jackson, sometimes like Charlie Parker.

The next moming, a Saturday, I heard that Cassius Clay and
his entourage had arrived. There was a huge reception for him
at the airport. I thought that if Cassius and I happened to meet,
it would likely prove embarrassing for Cassius, since he had
elected to remain with Elijah Muhammad’s version of Islam. I
would not have been embarrassed, but I knew that Cassius would
have been forbidden to associate with me. I knew that Cassius
knew I had been with him, and for him, and believed in him,
when those who later embraced him felt that he had no chance.
I decided to avoid Cassius so as not to put him on the spot.

A luncheon was given for me that afternoon by the Nigerian
High Commissioner, His Excellency Alhadji Isa Wali, a short,
bespectacled, extremely warm and friendly man who had lived
in Washington, D.C. for two years. After lunch, His Excel-
lency spoke to the guests of his American encounters with
discrimination, and of friendships he had made with Afro-
Americans, and he reaffirmed the bonds between Africans and
Afro-Americans.

His Excellency held up before the luncheon guests a large and
handsome issue of an American magazine, Horizon; it was
opened to an article about the Nation of Islam, written by Dr.
Morroe Berger of Princeton University. One full page was a
photograph of me; the opposite full page was a beautiful color
illustration of a black royal Nigerian Muslim, stalwart and hand-
some, of hundreds of years ago.

‘When I look at these photographs, I know these two people
are one,’’ said His Excellency. ‘*The only difference is in their
attire—and one was born in America and the other in Africa.

**So to let everyone know that I believe we are brothers, I am
going to give to Alhadji Malcolm X a robe like that worn by the
Nigerian in this photo.’’

I was overwhelmed by the splendor of the beautiful blue robe

366 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

and the orange turban which His Excellency then presented to
me. I bent over so that he, a short man, could properly arrange
the turban on my head. His Excellency Alhadji Isa Wali also
presented me with a two-volume translation of the Holy Quran.

After this unforgettable luncheon, Mrs. Shirley Graham Du
Bois drove me to her home, so that I could see and photograph
the home where her famed late husband, Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois,
had spent his last days. Mrs. Du Bois, a writer, was the Director
of Ghanaian television, which was planned for educational pur-
poses. When Dr. Du Bois had come to Ghana, she told me, Dr.
Nkrumah had set up the aging great militant Afro-American
scholar like a king, giving to Dr. Du Bois everything he could
wish for. Mrs. Du Bois told me that when Dr. Du Bois was
failing fast, Dr. Nkrumah had visited, and the two men had said
good-bye, both knowing that one’s death was near—and Dr.
Nkrumah had gone away in tears.

My final Ghanaian social event was a beautiful party in my
honor given by His Excellency Mr. Armando Entralgo Gonza-
lez, the Cuban Ambassador to Ghana. The next moming—it was
Sunday—the ‘‘Malcolm X Committee’’ was waiting at my ho-
tel, to accompany me to the airport. As we left the hotel, we
met Cassius Clay with some of his entourage, returning from
his morning walk. Cassius momentarily seemed uncertain—then
he spoke, something almost monosyltabic, like “‘How are you?”’
It flashed through my mind how close we had been before the
fight that had changed the course of his life. I replied that I was
fine—something like that—and that I hoped he was, which I
sincerely meant. Later on, I sent Cassius a message by wire,
saying that I hoped that he would realize how much he was loved
by Muslims wherever they were; and that he would not let any-
one use him and maneuver him into saying and doing things to
tarnish his image.

The ‘‘Malcolm X Committee’’ and I were exchanging good-
byes at the Accra airport when a small motorcade of five Am-
bassadors arrived—to see me off!

I no longer had any words.

In the plane, bound for Monrovia, Liberia, to spend a day, I
knew that after what I had experienced in the Holy Land, the
second most indelible memory I would carry back to America
would be the Africa seething with serious awareness of itself,

EL-HA]J MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 36/7

and of Africa’s wealth, and of her power, and of her destined
role in the world.

From Monrovia, I flew to Dakar, Senegal. The Senegalese in
the airport, hearing about the Muslim from America, stood in
line to shake my hand, and I signed many autographs. ‘‘Our
people can’t speak Arabic, but we have Islam in our hearts,”’
said one Senegalese. I told them that exactly described their
fellow Afro-American Muslims.

From Dakar, I flew to Morocco, where I spent a day sight-
seeing. I visited the famous Casbah, the ghetto which had
resulted when the ruling white French wouldn’t let the dark-
skinned natives into certain areas of Casablanca. Thousands upon
thousands of the subjugated natives were crowded into the
ghetto, in the same way that Harlem, in New York City, became
America’s Casbah.

It was Tuesday, May 19, 1964—my thirty-ninth birthday—
when I arrived in Algiers. A lot of water had gone under the
bridge in those years. In some ways, I had had more experiences
than a dozen men. The taxi driver, while taking me to the Hotel
Aletti, described the atrocities the French had committed, and
personal measures that he had taken to get even. I walked around
Algiers, hearing rank-and-file expressions of hatred for America
for supporting the oppressors of the Algerians. They were true
revolutionists, not afraid of death. They had, for so long, faced
death.

The Pan American jet which took me home—it was Flight
115—landed at New York’s Kennedy Air Terminal on May 21,
at 4:25 in the afternoon. We passengers filed off the plane and
toward Customs. When I saw the crowd of fifty or sixty report-
ers and photographers, I honestly wondered what celebrity I had
been on the plane with.

But I was the “‘villain’’ they had come to meet.

In Harlem especially, and also in some other U.S. cities, the
1964 long, hot summer’s predicted explosions had begun.
Article after article in the white man’s press had cast me as
a symbol—if not a causative agent—of the ‘‘revolt’’ and of
the ‘‘violence’’ of the American black man, wherever it had
sprung up.

In the biggest press conference that I had ever experienced

368 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

anywhere, the camera bulbs flashed, and the reporters fired
questions.

‘‘Mr. Malcolm X, what about those ‘Blood Brothers,’ re-
portedly affiliated with your organization, reportedly trained for
violence, who have killed innocent white people?’’ .. . ‘*Mr.
Malcolm X, what about your comment that Negroes should form
rifle clubs? . . .”’

I answered the questions. I knew I was back in America again,
hearing the subjective, scapegoat-seeking questions of the white
man. New York white youth were killing victims; that was a
‘‘sociological’’ problem. But when black youth killed some-
body, the power structure was looking to hang somebody. When
black men had been lynched or otherwise murdered in cold
blood, it was always said, ‘‘Things will get better.’’ When whites
had rifles in their homes, the Constitution gave them the right
to protect their home and themselves. But when black people
even spoke of having rifles in their homes, that was ‘‘ominous.’’

I slipped in on the reporters something they hadn’t been ex-
pecting. I said that the American black man needed to quit think-
ing what the white man had taught him—which was that the
black man had no alternative except to beg for his so-called
‘civil rights.’’ I said that the American black man needed to
recognize that he had a strong, airtight case to take the United
States before the United Nations on a formal accusation of ‘‘de-
nial of human nghts’’—and that if Angola and South Africa
were precedent cases, then there would be no easy way that the
U.S. could escape being censured, right on its own home ground.

Just as I had known, the press wanted to get me off that sub-
ject. I was asked about my ‘‘Letter From Mecca’’—I was all set
with a speech regarding that:

‘‘T hope that once and for all my Hayj to the Holy City of
Mecca has established our Muslim Mosque’s authentic religious
affiliation with the 750 million Muslims of the orthodox Islamic
World. And I know once and for all that the Black Africans look
upon America’s 22 million blacks as long-lost brothers! They
love us! They study our struggle for freedom! They were so
happy to hear how we are awakening from our long sleep—after
so-called ‘Christian’ white America had taught us to be ashamed
of our African brothers and homeland!

““Yes—I wrote a letter from Mecca. You’re asking me ‘Didn’t

EL-HA]J MALIK EL-SHABAZZ 369

you say that now you accept white men as brothers?’ Well, my
answer is that in the Muslim World, I saw, I felt, and I wrote
home how my thinking was broadened! Just as I wrote, I shared
true, brotherly love with many white-complexioned Muslims
who never gave a single thought to the race, or to the complex-
ion, of another Muslim.

‘‘My pilgrimage broadened my scope. It blessed me with a
new insight. In two weeks in the Holy Land, I saw what I never
had seen in thirty-nine years here in America. I saw all races,
all colors,—blue-eyed blonds to black-skinned A fricans—in true
brotherhood! In unity! Living as one! Worshiping as one! No
segregationists—no liberals; they would not have known how to
interpret the meaning of those words.

‘‘In the past, yes, I have made sweeping indictments of all
white people. I never will be guilty of that again—as I know
now that some white people are truly sincere, that some truly
are capable of being brotherly toward a black man. The true
Islam has shown me that a blanket indictment of all white people
is aS wrong as when whites make blanket indictments against
blacks.

‘*Yes, I have been convinced that some American whites do
want to help cure the rampant racism which is on the path to
destroying this country!

‘*It was in the Holy World that my attitude was changed, by
what I experienced there, and by what I witnessed there, in terms
of brotherhood—not just brotherhood toward me, but brother-
hood between all men, of all nationalities and complexions, who
were there. And now that I am back in America, my attitude
here concerning white people has to be governed by what my
black brothers and I experience here, and what we witness here—
in terms of brotherhood. The problem here in America is that
we meet such a small minority of individual so-called ‘good,’
or ‘brotherly’ white people. Here in the United States, notwith-
standing those few ‘good’ white people, it is the collective 150
million white people whom the collective 22 million black peo-
ple have to deal with!

‘“Why, here in America, the seeds of racism are so deeply
rooted in the white people collectively, their belief that they are
‘superior’ in some way is so deeply rooted, that these things are
in the national white subconsciousness. Many whites are even

370 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

actually unaware of their own racism, until they face some test,
and then their racism emerges in one form or another.

‘*Listen! The white man’s racism toward the black man here
in America is what has got him in such trouble all over this
world, with other non-white peoples. The white man can’t sep-
arate himself from the stigma that he automatically feels about
anyone, no matter who, who is not his color. And the non-white
peoples of the world are sick of the condescending white man!
That’s why you’ve got all of this trouble in places like Viet Nam.
Or right here in the Western Hemisphere—probably 100 million
people of African descent are divided against each other, taught
by the white man to hate and to mistrust each other. In the West
Indies, Cuba, Brazil, Venezuela, all of South America, Central
America! All of those lands are full of people with African blood!
On the African continent, even, the white man has maneuvered
to divide the black African from the brown Arab, to divide the
so-called ‘Christian African’ from the Muslim African. Can you
imagine what can happen, what would certainly happen, if all
of these African-heritage peoples ever realize their blood bonds,
if they ever realize they all have a common goal—if they ever
unite ?”’

The press was glad to get nid of me that day. I believe that
the black brothers whom I had just recently left in Africa would
have felt that I did the subject justice. Nearly through the night,
my telephone at home kept ringing. My black brothers and sis-
ters around New York and in some other cities were calling to
congratulate me on what they had heard on the radio and tele-
vision news broadcasts, and people, mostly white, were wanting
to know if I would speak here or there.

The next day I was in my car driving along the freeway when
at a red light another car pulled alongside. A white woman was
driving and on the passenger’s side, next to me, was a white
man. “‘Malcolm X!’’ he called out—and when I looked, he stuck
his hand out of his car, across at me, grinning. ‘‘Do you mind
shaking hands with a white man?’’ Imagine that! Just as the
traffic light turned green, I told him, ‘‘I don’t mind shaking
hands with human beings. Are you one?”’

CHAPTER NINETEEN
1965

I must be honest. Negroes—Afro-Americans—showed no incli-
nation to rush to the United Nations and demand justice for
themselves here in America. I really had known in advance that
they wouldn’t. The American white man has so thoroughly
brainwashed the black man to see himself as only a domestic
“‘civil nghts’’ problem that it will probably take longer than I
live before the Negro sees that the struggle of the American
black man is international.

And I had known, too, that Negroes would not rush to follow
me into the orthodox Islam which had given me the insight and
perspective to see that the black men and white men truly could
be brothers. America’s Negroes—especially older Negroes—are
too indelibly soaked in Christianity’s double standard of op-
pression.

So, in the “‘public invited’’ meetings which I began holding
each Sunday afternoon or evening in Harlem’s well-known Au-
dubon Ballroom, as I addressed predominantly non-Muslim Ne-
gro audiences, I did not immediately attempt to press the Islamic
religion, but instead to embrace all who sat before me:

“*—-not Muslim, nor Christian, Catholic, nor Protestant . . .
Baptist nor Methodist, Democrat nor Republican, Mason nor
Elk! I mean the black people of America—and the black people
all over this earth! Because it is as this collective mass of black
people that we have been deprived not only of our civil rights,
but even of our human rights, the nght to human dignity. .. .”’

On the streets, after my speeches, in the faces and the voices
of the people I met—even those who would pump my hands and

371

372 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

want my autograph—I would feel the wait-and-see attitude. I
would feel—and I understood—their uncertainty about where I
stood. Since the Civil War’s ‘‘freedom,’’ the black man has
gone down so many fruitless paths. His leaders, very largely,
had failed him. The religion of Christianity had failed him. The
black man was scarred, he was cautious, he was apprehensive.

I understood it better now than I had before. In the Holy
World, away from America’s race problem, was the first time I
ever had been able to think clearly about the basic divisions of
white people in America, and how their attitudes and their mo-
tives related to, and affected Negroes. In my thirty-nine years
on this earth, the Holy City of Mecca had been the first time I
had ever stood before the Creator of All and felt like a complete
human being.

In that peace of the Holy World—in fact, the very night I have
mentioned when J lay awake surrounded by snoring brother pil-
grims—my mind took me back to personal memories I would
have thought were gone forever. . . as far back, even, as when
I was just a little boy, eight or nine years old. Out behind our
house, out in the country from Lansing, Michigan, there was an
old, grassy “‘Hector’s Hill,’’ we called it—which may still be
there. I remembered there in the Holy World how I used to lie
on the top of Hector’s Hill, and look up at the sky, at the clouds
moving Over me, and daydream, all kinds of things. And then,
in a funny contrast of recollections, I remembered how years
later, when I was in prison, I used to lie on my cell bunk—this
would be especially when I was in solitary: what we convicts
called ‘‘The Hole’’—and I would picture myself talking to large
crowds. I don’t have any idea why such previsions came to me.
But they did. To tell that to anyone then would have sounded
crazy. Even I didn’t have, myself, the slightest inkling. .. .

In Mecca, too, I had played back for myself the twelve years
I had spent with Elijah Muhammad as if it were a motion pic-
ture. I guess it would be impossible for anyone ever to realize
fully how complete was my belief in Elijah Muhammad. I be-
lieved in him not only as a leader in the ordinary human sense,
but also I believed in him as a divine leader. I believed he had
no human weaknesses or faults, and that, therefore, he could
make no mistakes and that he could do no wrong. There on a
Holy World hilltop, I realized how very dangerous it is for peo-

1965 373

ple to hold any human being in such esteem, especially to con-
sider anyone some sort of “‘divinely guided’’ and ‘‘protected’’
person.

My thinking had been opened up wide in Mecca. In the long
letters I wrote to friends, I tried to convey to them my new
insights into the American black man’s struggle and his prob-
lems, as well as the depths of my search for truth and justice.

‘*!’ve had enough of someone else’s propaganda,’’ I had wnit-
ten to these friends. ‘‘I’m for truth, no matter who tells it. I'm
for justice, no matter who it is for or against. I’m a human being
first and foremost, and as such I’m for whoever and whatever
benefits humanity as a whole.’’

Largely, the American white man’s press refused to convey
that I was now attempting to teach Negroes a new direction.
With the 1964 ‘‘long, hot summer’’ steadily producing new
incidents, I was constantly accused of ‘‘stirring up Negroes.”’
Every time I had another radio or television microphone at my
mouth, when I was asked about ‘‘stirring up Negroes’’ or ‘‘in-
citing violence,’’ I’d get hot.

‘It takes no one to stir up the sociological dynamite that stems
from the unemployment, bad housing, and inferior education
already in the ghettoes. This explosively criminal condition has
existed for so long, it needs no fuse; it fuses itself; it spontane-
ously combusts from within itself... .”’

They called me ‘‘the angriest Negro in America.’’ I wouldn’t
deny that charge. I spoke exactly as I felt. ‘‘I believe in anger.
The Bible says there is a time for anger.’’ They called me ‘‘a
teacher, a fomentor of violence.’’ I would say point blank, ‘‘That
is a lic. I’m not for wanton violence, I’m for justice. I feel that
if white people were attacked by Negroes—if the forces of law
prove unable, or inadequate, or reluctant to protect those whites
from those Negroes—then those white people should protect and
defend themselves from those Negroes, using arms if necessary.
And I feel that when the law fails to protect Negroes from whites’
attack, then those Negroes should use arms, if necessary, to
defend themselves. ’’

**Malcolm X Advocates Armed Negroes!’’

What was wrong with that? I’ll tell you what was wrong. I
was a black man talking about physical defense against the white
man. The white man can lynch and bum and bomb and beat

374 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Negroes—that’s all right: ‘“Have patience’. . . ‘“The customs
are entrenched’’. . . ““Things are getting better.’’

Well, I believe it’s a crime for anyone who is being brutalized
to continue to accept that brutality without doing something to
defend himself. If that’s how ‘‘Christian’’ philosophy is inter-
preted, if that’s what Gandhian philosophy teaches, well, then,
I will call them criminal philosophies.

I tried in every speech I made to clarify my new position
regarding white people—‘‘I don’t speak against the sincere, well-
meaning, good white people. I have learned that there are some.
I have learned that not all white people are racists. I am speaking
against and my fight is against the white racists. I firmly believe
that Negroes have the right to fight against these racists, by any
means that are necessary.”’

But the white reporters kept wanting me linked with that word
‘‘violence.’’ I doubt if I had one interview without having to
deal with that accusation.

‘‘I am for violence if non-violence means we continue post-
poning a solution to the American black man’s problem—just to
avoid violence. I don’t go for non-violence if it also means a
delayed solution. To me a delayed solution is a non-solution.
Or I’ll say it another way. If it must take violence to get the
black man his human rights in this country, I’m for violence
exactly as you know the Irish, the Poles, or Jews would be if
they were flagrantly discriminated against. I am just as they
would be in that case, and they would be for violence—no matter
what the consequences, no matter who was hurt by the vio-
lence.’”’

White society hates to hear anybody, especially a black man,
talk about the crime the white man has perpetrated on the black
man. I have always understood that’s why I have been so fre-
quently called ‘‘a revolutionist.’’ It sounds as if J have done
some crime! Well, it may be the American black man does need
to become involved in a real revolution. The word for ‘‘revo-
lution’’ in German is Umwdlzung. What it means is a complete
overturn—a complete change. The overthrow of King Farouk in
Egypt and the succession of President Nasser is an example of
a true revolution. It means the destroying of an old system, and
its replacement with a new system. Another example is the Al-
gerian revolution, led by Ben Bella; they threw out the French

1965 375

who had been there over 100 years. So how does anybody sound
talking about the Negro in America waging some ‘‘revolution’’?
Yes, he is condemning a system—but he’s not trying to overturn
the system, or to destroy it. The Negro’s so-called ‘‘revolt’’ is
merely an asking to be accepted into the existing system! A true
Negro revolt might entail, for instance, fighting for separate
black states within this country—which several groups and in-
dividuals have advocated, long before Elijah Muhammad came
along.

When the white man came into this country, he certainly
wasn’t demonstrating any ‘‘non-violence.’’ In fact, the very man
whose name symbolizes non-violence here today has stated:

‘‘Our nation was born in genocide when it embraced the doc-
trine that the original American, the Indian, was an inferior race.
Even before there were large numbers of Negroes on our
shores, the scar of racial hatred had already disfigured colonial
society. From the sixteenth century forward, blood flowed in
battles over racial supremacy. We are perhaps the only nation
which tried as a matter of national policy to wipe out its indig-
enous population. Moreover, we elevated that tragic experience
into a noble crusade. Indeed, even today we have not permitted
ourselves to reject or to feel remorse for this shameful episode.
Our literature, our films, our drama, our folklore all exalt it. Our
children are still taught to respect the violence which reduced a
red-skinned people of an earlier culture into a few fragmented
groups herded into impoverished reservations.’’

“*Peaceful coexistence!’’ That’s another one the white man
has always been quick to cry. Fine! But what have been the
deeds of the white man? During his entire advance through his-
tory, he has been waving the banner of Christianity . . . and
carrying in his other hand the sword and the flintlock.

You can go right back to the very beginning of Christianity.
Catholicism, the genesis of Christianity as we know it to be
presently constituted, with its hierarchy, was conceived in Af-
rica—by those whom the Christian church calls ‘‘The Desert
Fathers.’’ The Christian church became infected with racism
when it entered white Europe. The Christian church returned to
Africa under the banner of the Cross—conquering, killing, ex-
ploiting, pillaging, raping, bullying, beating—and teaching white
supremacy. This is how the white man thrust himself into the

376 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

position of leadership of the world—through the use of naked
physical power. And he was totally inadequate spiritually. Man-
kind’s history has proved from one era to another that the true
criterion of leadership is spiritual. Men are attracted by spirit.
By power, men are forced. Love is engendered by spirit. By
power, anxieties are created.

I am in agreement one hundred per cent with those racists
who say that no government laws ever can force brotherhood.
The only true world solution today is governments guided by
true religion—of the spirit. Here in race-torn America, I am
convinced that the Islam religion is desperately needed, partic-
ularly by the American black man. The black man needs to
reflect that he has been America’s most fervent Christian—and
where has it gotten him? In fact, in the white man’s hands, in
the white man’s interpretation . . . where has Christianity
brought this world ?

It has brought the non-white two-thirds of the human popu-
lation to rebellion. Two-thirds of the human population today is
telling the one-third minority white man, ‘“Get out!’’ And the
white man is leaving. And as he leaves, we see the non-white
peoples returning in a mush to their original religions, which had
been labeled ‘‘pagan’’ by the conquering white man. Only one
religion—Islam—had the power to stand and fight the white
man’s Christianity for a thousand years! Only Islam could keep
white Christianity at bay.

The Africans are returning to Islam and other indigenous re-
ligions. The Asians are returning to being Hindus, Buddhists
and Muslims.

As the Christian Cmisade once went East, now the Islamic
Crusade is going West. With the East—Asia—closed to Chris-
tianity, with Africa rapidly being converted to Islam, with Eu-
rope rapidly becoming un-Chnistian, generally today it is
accepted that the “‘Christian’’ civilization of America—which
is propping up the white race around the world—is Christianity’s
remaining strongest bastion.

Well, if this is so—if the so-called ‘‘Christianity’’ now being
practiced in America displays the best that world Christianity
has left to offer—no one in his right mind should need any much
greater proof that very close at hand is the end of Christianity.

Are you aware that some Protestant theologians, in their writ-

1965 377

ings, are using the phrase ‘‘post-Christian era’’—and they mean
now?

And what is the greatest single reason for this Christian
church’s failure? It is its failure to combat racism. It is the old
‘“You sow, you reap’’ story. The Christian church sowed rac-
ism—blasphemously; now it reaps racism.

Sunday mornings in this year of grace 1965, imagine the
‘*Christian conscience’’ of congregations guarded by deacons
barring the door to black would-be worshipers, telling them
‘You can’t enter this House of God!”’

Tell me, if you can, a sadder irony than that St. Augustine,
Florida—a city named for the black African saint who saved
Catholicism from heresy—was recently the scene of bloody race
riots.

I believe that God now is giving the world’s so-called **Chris-
tian’’ white society its last opportunity to repent and atone for
the crimes of exploiting and enslaving the world’s non-white
peoples. It is exactly as when God gave Pharaoh a chance to
repent. But Pharaoh persisted in his refusal to give justice to
those whom he oppressed. And, we know, God finally de-
stroyed Pharaoh.

Is white America really sorry for her crimes against the black
people? Does white America have the capacity to repent—and
to atone? Does the capacity to repent, to atone, exist in a ma-
jority, in one-half, in even one-third of American white society?

Many black men, the victims—1in fact most black men—would
like to be able to forgive, to forget, the crimes.

But most American white people seem not to have it in them
to make any serious atonement—to do justice to the black man.

Indeed, how can white society atone for enslaving, for raping,
for unmanning, for otherwise brutalizing millions of human be-
ings, for centuries? What atonement would the God of Justice
demand for the robbery of the black people’s labor, their lives,
their true identities, their culture, their history—and even their
human dignity?

A desegregated cup of coffee, a theater, public toilets—the
whole range of hypocritical ‘‘integration’’—these are not atone-
ment.

After a while in America, I returned abroad—and this time, I
spent eighteen weeks in the Middle East and Africa.

378 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

The world leaders with whom I had private audiences this
time included President Gamal Abdel Nasser, of Egypt; Presi-
dent Julius K. Nyerere, of Tanzania; President Nnamoi Aziki-
we, of Nigeria; Osagyefo Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, of Ghana;
President Sekou Touré, of Guinea; President Jomo Kenyatta, of
Kenya; and Prime Minister Dr. Milton Obote, of Uganda.

I also met with religious leaders—African, Arab, Asian, Mus-
lim, and non-Muslim. And in all of these countries, I talked
with Afro-Americans and whites of many professions and back-
grounds.

An American white ambassador in one African country was
Africa’s most respected American ambassador: I’m glad to say
that this was told to me by one ranking African leader. We talked
for an entire afternoon. Based on what I had heard of him, I had
to believe him when he told me that as long as he was on the
African continent, he never thought in terms of race, that he
dealt with human beings, never noticing their color. He said
he was more aware of language differences than of color differ-
ences. He said that only when he returned to America would he
become aware of color differences.

I told him, ‘‘What you are telling me is that it isn’t the Amer-
ican white man who is a racist, but it’s the American political,
economic, and social atmosphere that automatically nourishes a
racist psychology in the white man.’’ He agreed.

We both agreed that American society makes it next to im-
possible for humans to meet in America and not be conscious
of their color differences. And we both agreed that if racism
could be removed, America could offer a society where rich and
poor could truly live like human beings.

That discussion with the ambassador gave me a new insight—
one which I like: that the white man is not inherently evil, but
America’s racist society influences him to act evilly. The society
has produced and nourishes a psychology which brings out the
lowest, most base part of human beings.

I had a totally different kind of talk with another white man I
met in Africa—who, to me, personified exactly what the am-
bassador and I had discussed. Throughout my trip, I was of
course aware that I was under constant surveillance. The agent
was a particularly obvious and obnoxious one; I am not sure for
what agency, as he never identified it, or I would say it. Any-

1965 379

way, this one finally got under my skin when I found I couldn’t
seem to eat a meal in the hotel without seeing him somewhere
around watching me. You would have thought I was John Dil-
linger or somebody.

I just got up from my breakfast one morning and walked over
to where he was and I told him I knew he was following me,
and if he wanted to know anything, why didn’t he ask me. He
started to give me one of those too-lofty-to-descend-to-you at-
titudes. I told him then right to his face he was a fool, that he
didn’t know me, or what I stood for, so that made him one of
those people who let somebody else do their thinking; and that
no matter what job a man had, at least he ought to be able to
think for himself. That stung him; he let me have it.

I was, to hear him tell it, anti-American, un-American, sedi-
tious, subversive, and probably Communist. I told him that what
he said only proved how little he understood about me. I told
him that the only thing the F.B.I, the C.I.A., or anybody else
could ever find me guilty of, was being open-minded. I said I was
seeking for the truth, and I was trying to weigh—objectively—
everything on its own merit. I said what I was against was strait-
jacketed thinking, and strait-jacketed societies. I said I respected
every man’s right to believe whatever his intelligence tells him
is intellectually sound, and I expect everyone else to respect my
right to believe likewise.

This super-sleuth then got off on my ‘‘Black Muslim”’’ reli-
gious beliefs. I asked him hadn’t his headquarters bothered to
brief him—that my attitudes and beliefs were changed? I told
him that the Islam I believed in now was the Islam which was
taught in Mecca—that there was no God but Allah, and that
Muhammad ibn Abdullah who lived in the Holy City of Mecca
fourteen hundred years ago was the Last Messenger of Allah.

Almost from the first I had been guessing about something;
and I took a chance—and I really shook up that ‘‘super-sleuth.”’
From the consistent subjectivity in just about everything he asked
and said, I had deduced something, and I told him, ‘‘You know,
I think you’ re a Jew with an Anglicized name.’’ His involuntary
expression told me I’d hit the button. He asked me how I knew.
I told him I’d had so much experience with how Jews would
attack me that I usually could identify them. I told him all I held
against the Jew was that so many Jews actually were hypocrites

380 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

in their claim to be friends of the American black man, and it
burned me up to be so often called ‘‘anti-Semitic’’ when I spoke
things I knew to be the absolute truth about Jews. I told him
that, yes, I gave the Jew credit for being among all other whites
the most active, and the most vocal, financier, ‘‘leader’’ and
‘‘liberal’’ in the Negro civil rights movement. But I said at the
same time I knew that the Jew played these roles for a very
careful strategic reason: the more prejudice in America could be
focused upon the Negro, then the more the white Gentiles’ prej-
udice would keep diverted off the Jew. I said that to me, one
proof that all the civil rights posturing of so many Jews wasn’t
sincere was that so often in the North the quickest segregation-
ists were Jews themselves. Look at practically everything the
black man is trying to ‘‘integrate’’ into for instance; if Jews are
not the actual owners, or are not in controlling positions, then
they have major stockholdings or they are otherwise in powerful
leverage positions—and do they really sincerely exert these in-
fluences? No!

And an even clearer proof for me of how Jews truly regard
Negroes, I said, was what invariably happened wherever a Ne-
gro moved into any white residential neighborhood that was
thickly Jewish. Who would always lead the whites’ exodus? The
Jews! Generally in these situations, some whites stay put—you
just notice who they are: they’re Irish Catholics, they’re Italians;
they’re rarely ever any Jews. And, ironically, the Jews them-
selves often still have trouble being ‘‘accepted.’’

Saying this, I know [ll hear ‘‘anti-Semitic’’ from every di-
rection again. Oh, yes! But truth is truth.

Politics dominated the American scene while I was traveling
abroad this time. In Cairo and again in Accra, the American
press wire services reached me with trans-Atlantic calls, asking
whom did I favor, Johnson—or Goldwater?

I said I felt that as far as the American black man was con-
cerned they were both just about the same. I felt that it was for
the black man only a question of Johnson, the fox, or Goldwater,
the wolf.

“‘Conservatism’’ in America’s politics means ‘‘Let’s keep the
niggers in their place.’’ And ‘‘liberalism’’ means ‘‘Let’s keep
the knee-grows in their place—but tell them we’ll treat them a

1965 381

little better; let’s fool them more, with more promises.’’ With
these choices, I felt that the American black man only needed
to choose which one to be eaten by, the “‘liberal’’ fox or the
‘‘conservative’’ wolf—because both of them would eat him.

I didn’t go for Goldwater any more than for Johnson—except
that in a wolf’s den, I’d always known exactly where I stood;
I’d watch the dangerous wolf closer than I would the smooth,
sly fox. The wolf’s very growling would keep me alert and
fighting him to survive, whereas I might be lulled and fooled by
the tricky fox. I'll give you an illustration of the fox. When the
assassination in Dallas made Johnson President, who was the
first person he called for? It was for his best friend, ‘‘Dicky’’—
Richard Russell of Georgia. Civil nights was ‘‘a moral issue,”’
Johnson was declaring to everybody—while his best friend was
the Southern racist who led the civil rights opposition. How
would some sheriff sound, declaring himself so against bank
robbery—and Jesse James his best friend?

Goldwater as a man, I respected for speaking out his true
convictions—something rarely done in politics today. He wasn’t
whispering to racists and smiling at integrationists. I felt Gold-
water wouldn’t have risked his unpopular stand without convic-
tion. He flatly told black men he wasn’t for them—and there is
this to consider: always, the black people have advanced further
when they have seen they had to rise up against a system that
they clearly saw was outright against them. Under the steady
lullabies sung by foxy liberals, the Northern Negro became a
beggar. But the Southern Negro, facing the honestly snarling
white man, rose up to battle that white man for his freedom—
long before it happened in the North.

Anyway, I didn’t feel that Goldwater was any better for black
men than Johnson, or vice-versa. I wasn’t in the United States
at election time, but if I had been, I wouldn’t have put myself
in the position of voting for either candidate for the Presidency,
or of recommending to any black man to do so. It has tured
out that it’s Johnson in the White House—and black votes were
a major factor in his winning as decisively as he wanted to. If it
had been Goldwater, all I am saying is that the black people
would at least have known they were dealing with an honestly
growling wolf, rather than a fox who could have them half-
digested before they even knew what was happening.

382 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I kept having all kinds of troubles trying to develop the kind
of Black Nationalist organization I wanted to build for the Amer-
ican Negro. Why Black Nationalism? Well, in the competitive
American society, how can there ever be any white-black soli-
darity before there is first some black solidarity? If you will
remember, in my childhood I had been exposed to the Black
Nationalist teachings of Marcus Garvey—which, in fact, I had
been told had led to my father’s murder. Even when I was a
follower of Elijah Muhammad, I had been strongly aware of
how the Black Nationalist political, economic and social philos-
ophies had the ability to instill within black men the racial dig-
nity, the incentive, and the confidence that the black race needs
today to get up off its knees, and to get on its feet, and get rid
of its scars, and to take a stand for itself.

One of the major troubles that I was having in building the
organization that IJ wanted—an all-black organization whose ul-
timate objective was to help create a society in which there could
exist honest white-black brotherhood—was that my earlier pub-
lic image, my old so-called ‘‘Black Muslim’’ image, kept block-
ing me. I was trying to gradually reshape that image. I was
trying to turn a comer, into a new regard by the public, espe-
cially Negroes; I was no less angry than I had been, but at the
same time the true brotherhood I had seen in the Holy World
had influenced me to recognize that anger can blind human vi-
sion.

Every free moment I could find, I did a lot of talking to key
people whom I knew around Harlem, and I made a lot of
speeches, saying: ‘‘True Islam taught me that it takes all of the
religious, political, economic, psychological, and racial ingre-
dients, or characteristics, to make the Human Family and the
Human Society complete.

‘*Since I learned the truth in Mecca, my dearest friends have
come to include all kinds—some Chnistians, Jews, Buddhists,
Hindus, agnostics, and even atheists! I have friends who are
called capitalists, Socialists, and Communists! Some of my
friends are moderates, conservatives, extremists—some are even
Uncle Toms! My friends today are black, brown, red, yellow,
and white!’’

I said to Harlem street audiences that only when mankind
would submit to the One God who created all—only then would

1965 383

mankind even approach the ‘‘peace’’ of which so much talk
could be heard . . . but toward which so little action was seen.

I said that on the American racial level, we had to approach
the black man’s struggle against the white man’s racism as a
human problem, that we had to forget hypocritical politics and
propaganda. I said that both races, as human beings, had the
obligation, the responsibility, of helping to correct America’s
human problem. The well-meaning white people, I said, had to
combat, actively and directly, the racism in other white people.
And the black people had to build within themselves much
greater awareness that along with equal nghts there had to be
the bearing of equal responsibilities.

I knew, better than most Negroes, how many white people
truly wanted to see American racial problems solved. I knew
that many whites were as frustrated as Negroes. I’ll bet I got
fifty letters some days from white people. The white people in
meeting audiences would throng around me, asking me, after I
had addressed them somewhere, ‘‘What can a sincere white
person do?’’

When I say that here now, it makes me think about that little
co-ed I told you about, the one who flew from her New England
college down to New York and came up to me in the Nation of
Islam’s restaurant in Harlem, and I told her that there was ‘‘noth-
ing’’ she could do. I regret that I told her that. I wish that now
I knew her name, or where I could telephone her, or write to
her, and tell her what I tell white people now when they present
themselves as being sincere, and ask me, one way or another,
the same thing that she asked.

The first thing I tell them is that at least where my own par-
ticular Black Nationalist organization, the Organization of Afro-
American Unity, is concerned, they can’t join us. I have these
very deep feelings that white people who want to join black
organizations are really just taking the escapist way to salve their
consciences. By visibly hovering near us, they are ‘‘proving’’
that they are ‘‘with us.’’ But the hard truth is this isn’t helping
to solve America’s racist problem. The Negroes aren’t the ra-
cists. Where the really sincere white people have got to do their
‘“‘proving’’ of themselves is not among the black victims, but
out on the battle lines of where America’s racism really is—and
that’s in their own home communities; America’s racism is

384 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

among their own fellow whites. That’s where the sincere whites
who reaily mean to accomplish something have got to work.

Aside from that, I mean nothing against any sincere whites
when I say that as members of black organizations, generally
whites’ very presence subtly renders the black organization au-
tomatically less effective. Even the best white members will
slow down the Negroes’ discovery of what they need to do, and
particularly of what they can do—for themselves, working by
themselves, among their own kind, in their own communities.

I sure don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings, but in fact I'll
even go so far as to say that I never really trust the kind of white
people who are always so anxious to hang around Negroes, or
to hang around in Negro communities. I don’t trust the kind of
whites who love having Negroes always hanging around them.
I don’t know—this feeling may be a throwback to the years when
I was hustling in Harlem and all of those red-faced, drunk whites
in the afterhours clubs were always grabbing hold of some
Negroes and talking about ‘‘I just want you to know you’ re just
as good as I am—’’ And then they got back in their taxicabs and
black limousines and went back downtown to the places where
they lived and worked, where no blacks except servants had
better get caught. But, anyway, I know that every time that
whites join a black organization, you watch, pretty soon the
blacks will be leaning on the whites to support it, and before
you know it a black may be up front with a title, but the whites,
because of their money, are the real controllers.

I tell sincere white people, ‘‘Work in conjunction with us—
each of us working among our own kind.’’ Let sincere white
individuals find all other white people they can who feel as they
do—and let them form their own all-white groups, to work try-
ing to convert other white people who are thinking and acting
so racist. Let sincere whites go and teach non-violence to white
people!

We will completely respect our white co-workers. They will
deserve every credit. We will give them every credit. We will
meanwhile be working among our own kind, in our own black
communities—showing and teaching black men in ways that
only other black men can—that the black man has got to help
himself. Working separately, the sincere white people and sin-
cere black people actually will be working together.

1965 385

In our mutual sincerity we might be able to show a road to
the salvation of America’s very soul. It can only be salvaged if
human rights and dignity, in full, are extended to black men.
Only such real, meaningful actions as those which are sincerely
motivated from a deep sense of humanism and moral responsi-
bility can get at the basic causes that produce the racial explo-
sions in America today. Otherwise, the racial explosions are
only going to grow worse. Certainly nothing is ever going to be
solved by throwing upon me and other so-called black ‘‘extrem-
ists’’ and ‘‘demagogues’’ the blame for the racism that is in
America.

Sometimes, I have dared to dream to myself that one day,
history may even say that my voice—which disturbed the white
man’s smugness, and his arrogance, and his complacency—that
my voice helped to save America from a grave, possibly even a
fatal catastrophe.

The goal has always been the same, with the approaches to it
as different as mine and Dr. Martin Luther King’s non-violent
marching, that dramatizes the brutality and the evil of the white
man against defenseless blacks. And in the racial climate of this
country today, it is anybody’s guess which of the ‘‘extremes’’
in approach to the black man’s problems might personally meet
a fatal catastrophe first—‘‘non-violent’’ Dr. King, or so-called
‘‘violent’’ me.

Anything I do today, I regard as urgent. No man is given but
so much time to accomplish whatever is his life’s work. My life
in particular never has stayed fixed in one position for very long.
You have seen how throughout my life, I have often known
unexpected drastic changes.

I am only facing the facts when I know that any moment of
any day, or any night, could bring me death. This is particularly
true since the last trip that I made abroad. I have seen the nature
of things that are happening, and I have heard things from sources
which are reliable.

To speculate about dying doesn’t disturb me as it might some
people. I never have felt that I would live to become an old man.
Even before I was a Muslim—when I was a hustler in the ghetto
jungle, and then a criminal in prison, it always stayed on my
mind that I would die a violent death. In fact, it runs in my

386 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

family. My father and most of his brothers died by violence—
my father because of what he believed in. To come nght down
to it, if I take the kind of things in which I believe, then add to
that the kind of temperament that I have, plus the one hundred
per cent dedication I have to whatever I believe in—these are
ingredients which make it just about impossible for me to die of
old age.

I have given to this book so much of whatever time I have
because I feel, and I hope, that if I honestly and fully tell my
life’s account, read objectively it might prove to be a testimony
of some social value.

I think that an objective reader may see how in the society to
which I was exposed as a black youth here in America, for me
to wind up in a prison was really just about inevitable. It happens
to so many thousands of black youth.

I think that an objective reader may see how when I heard
‘‘The white man is the devil,’’ when I played back what had
been my own experiences, it was inevitable that I would respond
positively; then the next twelve years of my life were devoted
and dedicated to propagating that phrase among the black peo-
ple.

I think, I hope, that the objective reader, in following my
life—the life of only one ghetto-created Negro—may gain a bet-
ter picture and understanding than he has previously had of the
black ghettoes which are shaping the lives and the thinking of
almost all of the 22 million Negroes who live in America.

Thicker each year in these ghettoes is the kind of teen-ager
that I was—with the wrong kinds of heroes, and the wrong kinds
of influences. I am not saying that all of them become the kind
of parasite that I was. Fortunately, by far most do not. But still,
the small fraction who do add up to an annual total of more and
more costly, dangerous youthful criminals. The F.B.I. not long
ago released a report of a shocking rise in crime each successive
year since the end of World War II—ten to twelve per cent each
year. The report did not say so in so many words, but I am
saying that the majority of that crime increase is annually
spawned in the black ghettoes which the American racist society
permits to exist. In the 1964 ‘‘long, hot summer’’ rots in major

1965 387

Cities across the United States, the socially disinherited black
ghetto youth were always at the forefront.

In this year, 1965, I am certain that more—and worse—riots
are going to erupt, in yet more cities, in spite of the conscience-
salving Civil Rights Bill. The reason is that the cause of these
riots, the racist malignancy in America, has been too long un-
attended.

I believe that it would be almost impossible to find anywhere
in America a black man who has lived further down in the mud
of human society than I have; or a black man who has been any
more ignorant than I have been; or a black man who has suffered
more anguish during his life than I have. But it is only after the
deepest darkness that the greatest joy can come; it is only after
slavery and prison that the sweetest appreciation of freedom can
come.

For the freedom of my 22 million black brothers and sisters
here in America, I do believe that I have fought the best that I
knew how, and the best that I could, with the shortcomings that
I have had. I know that my shortcomings are many.

My greatest lack has been, I believe, that I don’t have the
kind of academic education I wish I had been able to get—to
have been a lawyer, perhaps. I do believe that I might have made
a good lawyer. I have always loved verbal battle, and challenge.
You can believe me that if I had the time night now, I would not
be one bit ashamed to go back into any New York City public
school and start where I left off at the ninth grade, and go on
through a degree. Because I don’t begin to be academically
equipped for so many of the interests that I have. For instance,
I love languages. I wish I were an accomplished linguist. I don’t
know anything more frustrating than to be around people talking
something you can’t understand. Especially when they are peo-
ple who look just like you. In Africa, I heard original mother
tongues, such as Hausa, and Swahili, being spoken, and there I
was standing like some little boy, waiting for someone to tell
me what had been said; I never will forget how ignorant I felt.

Aside from the basic African dialects, I would try to learn
Chinese, because it looks as if Chinese will be the most powerful
political language of the future. And already I have begun study-
ing Arabic, which I think is going to be the most powerful spir-
itual language of the future.

388 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I would just like to study. I mean ranging study, because I
have a wide-open mind. I’m interested in almost any subject
you can mention. I know this is the reason I have come to really
like, as individuals, some of the hosts of radio or television panel
programs I have been on, and to respect their minds—because
even if they have been almost steadily in disagreement with me
on the race issue, they still have kept their minds open and objec-
tive about the truths of things happening in this world. Irv Kup-
cinet in Chicago, and Barry Farber, Barry Gray and Mike Wallace
in New York—people like them. They also let me see that they
respected my mind—in a way I know they never realized. The
way I knew was that often they would invite my opinion on sub-
jects off the race issue. Sometimes, after the programs, we would
sit around and talk about all kinds of things, current events and
other things, for an hour or more. You see, most whites, even
when they credit a Negro with some intelligence, will still feel
that all he can talk about is the race issue; most whites never feel
that Negroes can contribute anything to other areas of thought,
and ideas. You just notice how rarely you will ever hear whites
asking any Negroes what they think about the problem of world
health, or the space race to land men on the moon.

Every moming when I wake up, now, I regard it as having
another borrowed day. In any city, wherever I go, making
speeches, holding meetings of my organization, or attending to
other business, black men are watching every move I make,
awaiting their chance to kill me. I have said publicly many times
that I know that they have their orders. Anyone who chooses
not to believe what I am saying doesn’t know the Muslims in
the Nation of Islam.

But I am also blessed with faithful followers who are, I be-
lieve, as dedicated to me as I once was to Mr. Elijah Muham-
mad. Those who would hunt a man need to remember that a
jungle also contains those who hunt the hunters.

I know, too, that I could suddenly die at the hands of some
white racists. Or I could die at the hands of some Negro hired
by the white man. Or it could be some brainwashed Negro acting
on his own idea that by eliminating me he would be helping out
the white man, because I talk about the white man the way I do.

Anyway, now, each day I live as if I am already dead, and I

1965 389

tell you what I would like for you to do. When I am dead—I say
it that way because from the things I know, I do not expect to
live long enough to read this book in its finished form—I want
you to just watch and see if I’m not right in what I say: that the
white man, in his press, is going to identify me with “‘hate.’’

He will make use of me dead, as he has made use of me alive,
as a convenient symbol of ‘‘hatred’’—and that will help him to
escape facing the truth that all I have been doing is holding up
a mirror to reflect, to show, the history of unspeakable crimes
that his race has committed against my race.

You watch. I will be labeled as, at best, an ‘‘irresponsible’’
black man. I have always felt about this accusation that the black
‘‘leader’’ whom white men consider to be ‘‘responsible’’ is in-
variably the black ‘‘leader’’ who never gets any results. You
only get action as a black man if you are regarded by the white
man as ‘‘irresponsible.’’ In fact, this much I had learned when
I was just a little boy. And since I have been some kind of a
*‘leader’’ of black people here in the racist society of America,
I have been more reassured each time the white man resisted
me, or attacked me harder—because each time made me more
Certain that I was on the right track in the American black man’s
best interests. The racist white man’s opposition automatically
made me know that I did offer the black man something worth-
while.

Yes, I have cherished my ‘‘demagogue”’ role. I know that
societies often have killed the people who have helped to change
those societies. And if I can die having brought any light, having
exposed any meaningful truth that will help to destroy the racist
cancer that is malignant in the body of America—then, all of
the credit is due to Allah. Only the mistakes have been mine.

ALEX HALEY
EPILOGUE

During nineteen fifty-nine, when the public was becoming aware
of the Muslims after the New York telecast ‘“The Hate That
Hate Produced,’’ I was in San Francisco, about to retire after
twenty years in the U.S. Coast Guard. A friend returned from a
visit to her Detroit home and told me of a startling ‘‘black man’s’’
religion, ‘“The Nation of Islam,’’ to which, to her surprise, her
entire family was converted. I listened with incredulity to how
a ‘‘mad scientist Mr. Yacub’’ had genetically ‘‘grafted’’ the
white race from an original black people. The organization’s
leader was described as ‘‘The Honorable Elijah Muhammad’”’
and a ‘‘Minister Malcolm X’’ was apparently chief of staff.
When I entered a civilian writing career in New York City, I
collected, around Harlem, a good deal of provocative maternal
and then proposed an article about the cult to the Reader’s Di-
gest. Visiting the Muslim restaurant in Harlem, I asked how I
could meet Minister Malcolm X, who was pointed out talking
in a telephone booth nght behind me. Soon he came out, a
gangling, tall, reddish-brownskinned fellow, at that time thirty-
five years old; when my purpose was made known, he bristled,
his eyes skewering me from behind the horn-rimmed glasses.
‘“You’re another one of the white man’s tools sent to spy!’’ he
accused me sharply. I said I had a legitimate writing assignment
and showed him my letter from the magazine stating that an
objective article was wanted, one that would balance what the
Muslims said of themselves and what their attackers said about
them. Malcolm X snorted that no white man’s promise was
worth the paper it was on; he would need time to decide if he

390

EPILOGUE 391

would cooperate or not. Meanwhile, he suggested that I could
attend some of the Harlem Temple Number 7 meetings (“‘tem-
ples’’ have since been renamed ‘‘mosques’’) which were open
to non-Muslim Negroes.

Around the Muslim’s restaurant, I met some of the converts,
all of them neatly dressed and almost embarrassingly polite.
Their manners and miens reflected the Spartan personal disci-
pline the organization demanded, and none of them would utter
anything but Nation of Islam clichés. Even excellent weather
was viewed as a blessing from Allah, with corollary credit due
to “‘The Honorable Elijah Muhammad.”’

Finally, Minister Malcolm X told me that he would not take
personal responsibility. He said that I should talk about an article
with Mr. Muhammad personally. I expressed willingness, an
appointment was made, and I flew to Chicago. The slightly
built, shy-acting, soft-voiced Mr. Muhammad invited me to din-
ner with his immediate family in his mansion. I was aware that
I was being carefully sized up while he talked primarily of F.B.I.
and Internal Revenue Service close surveillance of his organi-
zation, and of a rumored forthcoming Congressional probe. ‘But
I have no fear of any of them; I have all that I need—the truth,”’
Mr. Muhammad said. The subject of my writing an article
somehow never got raised, but Malcolm X proved far more
cooperative when I returned.

He would sit with me at a white-topped table in the Muslim
restaurant and answer guardedly any questions I asked between
constant interruptions by calls from the New York press in the
telephone booth. When I asked if I could see Muslim activities
in some Other cities, he arranged with other ministers for me to
attend meetings at temples in Detroit, Washington, and Phila-
delphia.

My article entitled ‘‘Mr. Muhammad Speaks’’ appeared in
early 1960, and it was the first featured magazine notice of the
phenomenon. A letter quickly came from Mr. Muhammad ap-
preciating that the article kept my promise to be objective, and
Malcolm X telephoned similar compliments. About this time,
Dr. C. Eric Lincoln’s book The Black Muslims in America was
published and the Black Muslims became a subject of growing
interest. During 1961 and 1962, the Saturday Evening Post
teamed me with a white writer, Al Balk, to do an article; next I

392 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

did a personal interview of Malcolm X for Playboy magazine,
which had promised to print verbatim whatever response he made
to my questions. During that interview of several days’ duration,
Malcolm X repeatedly exclaimed, after particularly blistering
anti-Christian or anti-white statements: ‘‘ You know that devil’s
not going to print that!’’ He was very much taken aback when
Playboy kept its word.

Malcolm X began to warm up to me somewhat. He was most
aware of the national periodicals’ power, and he had come to
regard me, if still suspiciously, as one avenue of access. Occa-
sionally now he began to telephone me advising me of some
radio, television, or personal speaking appearance he was about
to make, or he would invite me to attend some Black Muslim
bazaar or other public affair.

I was in this stage of relationship with the Malcolm X who
often described himself on the air as ‘‘the angriest black man in
America’’ when in early 1963 my agent brought me together
with a publisher whom the Playboy interview had given the idea
of the autobiography of Malcolm X. I was asked if I felt I could
get the now nationally known firebrand to consent to telling the
intimate details of his entire life. I said I didn’t know, but I
would ask him. The editor asked me if I could sketch the likely
highlights of such a book, and as I commenced talking, I real-
ized how little I knew about the man personally, despite all my
interviews. I said that the question had made me aware of how
careful Malcolm X had always been to play himself down and
to play up his leader Elijah Muhammad.

All that I knew, really, I said, was that I had heard Malcolm X
refer in passing to his life of crime and prison before he became
a Black Muslim; that several times he had told me: ‘‘You
wouldn’t believe my past,’’ and that I had heard others say that
at one time he had peddled dope and women and committed
armed robberies.

I knew that Malcolm X had an almost fanatical obsession
about time. “‘I have less patience with someone who doesn’t
wear a watch than with anyone else, for this type is not time-
conscious,’’ he had once told me. ‘‘In all our deeds, the proper
value and respect for time determines success or failure.’’ I knew
how the Black Muslim membership was said to increase wher-
ever Malcolm X lectured, and I knew his pride that Negro pris-

EPILOGUE 393

oners in most prisons were discovering the Muslim religion as
he had when he was a convict. I knew he professed to eat only
what a Black Musiim (preferably his wife Betty) had cooked and
he drank innumerable cups of coffee which he lightened with
cream, commenting wryly, ‘“Coffee is the only thing I like in-
tegrated.’’ Over our luncheon table, I told the editor and my
agent how Malcolm X could unsettle non-Muslims—as, for in-
stance, once when he offered to drive me to a subway, I began
to light a cigarette and he drily observed, ‘“That would make
you the first person ever to smoke in this automobile.”’

Malcolm X gave me a startled look when I asked him if he
would tell his life story for publication. It was one of the few
times I have ever seen him uncertain. “‘I will have to give a
book a lot of thought,’’ he finally said. Two days later, he tele-
phoned me to meet him again at the Black Muslim restaurant.
He said, ‘‘I’ll agree. I think my life story may help people to
appreciate better how Mr. Muhammad salvages black people.
But I don’t want my motives for this misinterpreted by any-
body—the Nation of Islam must get every penny that might
come to me.’’ Of course, Mr. Muhammad’s agreement would
be necessary, and I would have to ask Mr. Muhammad myself.

So I flew again to see Mr. Muhammad, but this time to Phoe-
nix, Arizona, where the Nation of Islam had bought him the
house in the hot, dry climate that relieved his severe bronchial
condition. He and I talked alone this time. He told me how his
organization had come far with largely uneducated Muslims and
that truly giant strides for the black man could be made if his
organization were aided by some of the talents which were avail-
able in the black race. He said, ‘‘And one of our worst needs is
writers’’—but he did not press me to answer. He suddenly began
coughing, and rapidly grew worse and worse until I rose from
my seat and went to him, alarmed, but he waved me away,
gasping that he would be all night. Between gasps, he told me
he felt that ‘‘Allah approves’’ the book. He said, ‘‘Malcolm is
one of my most outstanding ministers.’’ After arranging for his
chauffeur to return me to the Phoenix airport, Mr. Muhammad
quickly bade me good-bye and rushed from the room coughing.

Back East, Malcolm X carefully read and then signed the
publication contract, and he withdrew from his wallet a piece of

394 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

paper filled with his sprawling longhand. ‘‘This is this book’s
dedication,’’ he said. I read: ‘“This book I dedicate to The Hon-
orable Elijah Muhammad, who found me here in America in the
muck and mire of the filthiest civilization and society on this
earth, and pulled me out, cleaned me up, and stood me on my
feet, and made me the man that I am today.’’

The contract provided that all monies accruing to Malcolm X
‘*shall be made payable by the agent to ‘Muhammad’s Mosque
No. 2,’ ’’ but Malcolm X felt this was insufficient. He dictated
to me a letter to type for his signature, which I did: ‘‘Any and
all monies representing my contracted share of the financial re-
tums should be made payable by the literary agent to Muham-
mad’s Mosque No. 2. These payments should be mailed to the
following address: Mr. Raymond Sharrieff, 4847 Woodlawn
Avenue, Chicago 15, Illinois.’’

Another letter was dictated, this one an agreement between
him and me: ‘‘Nothing can be in this book’s manuscript that I
didn’t say, and nothing can be left out that I want in it.’’

In tum, I asked Malcolm X to sign for me a personal pledge
that however busy he was, he would give me a priority quota of
his time for the planned 100,000-word ‘‘as told to’’ book which
would detail his entire life. And months later, in a time of strain
between us, I asked for—and he gave—his permission that at
the end of the book I could write comments of my own about
him which would not be subject to his review.

Malcolm X promptly did begin to pay me two- and three-hour
visits, parking his blue Oldsmobile outside the working studio I
then had in Greenwich Village. He always arrived around nine
or ten at night carrying his flat tan leather briefcase which along
with his scholarly look gave him a resemblance to a hard-working
lawyer. Inevitably, he was tired after his long busy day, and
sometimes he was clearly exhausted.

We got off to a very poor start. To use a word he liked, I think
both of us were a bit ‘‘spooky.’’ Sitting right there and staring
at me was the fiery Malcolm X who could be as acid toward
Negroes who angered him as he was against whites in general.
On television, in press conferences, and at Muslim rallies, I had
heard him bitterly attack other Negro writers as ‘‘Uncle Toms,”’
‘‘yard Negroes,’’ ‘‘black men in white clothes.’’ And there I
sat staring at him, proposing to spend a year plumbing his in-

EPILOGUE 395

nermost secrets when he had developed a near phobia for se-
crecy during his years of crime and his years in the Muslim
hierarchy. My twenty years in military service and my Christian
religious persuasion didn’t help, either; he often jeered publicly
at these affiliations for Negroes. And although he now would
indirectly urge me to write for national magazines about the
Muslims, he had told me several times, in various ways, that
‘‘you blacks with professional abilities of any kind will one of
these days wake up and find out that you must unite under the
leadership of The Honorable Elijah Muhammad for your own
salvation.’’ Malcolm X was also convinced that the F.B.I. had
‘‘bugged’’ my studio; he probably suspected that 1t may even
have been done with my cooperation. For the first several weeks,
he never entered the room where we worked without exclaim-
ing, ‘‘Testing, testing—one, two, three... .”’

Tense incidents occurred. One night a white friend was in the
studio when Malcolm X arrived a little earlier than anticipated,
and they passed each other in the corridor. Malcolm X’s manner
during all of that session suggested that his worst doubts had
been confirmed. Another time when Malcolm X sat haranguing
me about the glories of the Muslim organization, he was ges-
turing with his passport in his hand; he saw that I was trying to
read its perforated number and suddenly he thrust the passport
toward me, his neck flushed reddish: ‘‘Get the number straight,
but it won’t be anything the white devil doesn’t already know.
He issued me the passport.’”’

For perhaps a month I was afraid we weren’t going to get any
book. Malcolm X was still stiffly addressing me as ‘‘Sir!’’ and
my notebook contained almost nothing but Black Muslim phi-
losophy, praise of Mr. Muhammad, and the ‘‘evils’’ of ‘‘the
white devil.’’ He would bristle when I tried to urge him that the
proposed book was his life. I was thinking that I might have to
advise the publisher that I simply couldn’t seem to get through
to my subject when the first note of hope occurred. ! had noticed
that while Malcolm X was talking, he often simultaneously
scribbled with his red-ink ball-point pen on any handy paper.
Sometimes it was the margin of a newspaper he brought in,
sometimes it was on index cards that he carried in the back of a
small. red-backed appointment book. I began leaving two white
paper napkins by him every time I served him more coffee, and

396 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

the ruse worked when he sometimes scribbled on the napkins,
which I retrieved when he left. Some examples are these:

‘‘Here lies a YM, killed by a BM, fighting for the WM, who
killed all the RM.’ (Decoding that wasn’t difficult, knowing
Malcolm X. ‘‘YM”’ was for yellow man, ‘‘BM”’ for black man,
‘*WM7’’ for white man, and ‘‘RM”’ was for red man.)

‘‘Nothing ever happened without cause. Cause BM condition
WM won’t face. WM obsessed with hiding his guilt.’*

“‘If Christianity had asserted itself in Germany, six million
Jews would have lived.’’

‘*WM so quick to tell BM ‘Look what I have done for you!’
No! Look what you have done ¢o us!”’

‘*BM dealing with WM who put our eyes out, now he con-
demns us because we cannot see.’’

‘‘Only persons really changed history those who changed
men’s thinking about themselves. Hitler as well as Jesus, Stalin
as well as Buddha. . . Hon. Elijah Muhammad... .”’

It was through a clue from one of the scribblings that finally
I cast a bait that Malcolm X took. ‘‘Woman who cries all the
time is only because she knows she can get away with it,’’ he
had scribbled. I somehow raised the subject of women. Sud-
denly, between sips of coffee and further scribbling and doo-
dling, he vented his criticisms and skepticisms of women. ‘‘You
never can fully trust any woman,”’ he said. “‘I’ve got the only
one I ever met whom I would trust seventy-five per cent. I’ve
told her that,’’ he said. “‘I’ve told her like I tell you I’ve seen
too many men destroyed by their wives, or their women.

‘*I don’t completely trust anyone,’’ he went on, “‘not even
myself. I have seen too many men destroy themselves. Other
people I trust from not at all to highly, like The Honorable Elijah
Muhammad.’’ Malcolm X looked squarely at me. ‘‘You I trust
about twenty-five per cent.”’

Trying to keep Malcolm X talking, I mined the woman theme
for all it was worth. Triumphantly, he exclaimed, ‘‘Do you
know why Benedict Amold tumed traitor—a woman!’’ He said,
*“Whatever else a woman is, I don’t care who the woman is, it
starts with her being vain. Ill prove it, something you can do
anytime you want, and I know what I’m talking about, I’ve done
it. You think of the hardest-looking, meanest-acting woman you
know, one of those women who never smiles. Well, every day

EPILOGUE 397

you see that woman you look her right in the eyes and tell her
‘I think you’re beautiful,’ and you watch what happens. The
first day she may curse you out, the second day, too—but you
watch, you keep on, after a while one day she’s going to start
smiling just as soon as you come in sight.”’

When Malcolm X left that night, I retrieved napkin scrib-
blings that further documented how he could be talking about
one thing and thinking of something else:

‘‘Negroes have too much righteousness. WM says, ‘I want
this piece of land, how do I get those couple of thousand BM
on it off?’ ”’

‘‘T have wife who understands, or even if she doesn’t she at
least pretends.”’

‘*BM struggle never gets open support from abroad it needs
unless BM first forms own united front.’’

‘*Sit down, talk with people with brains I respect, all of us
want same thing, do some brainstorming.’’

‘‘Would be shocking to reveal names of the BM leaders who
have secretly met with THEM.’’ (The capitalized letters stood
for The Honorable Elijah Muhammad.)

Then one night, Malcolm X arrived nearly out on his feet
from fatigue. For two hours, he paced the floor delivering a
tirade against Negro leaders who were attacking Elijah Muham-
mad and himself. I don’t know what gave me the inspiration to
say once when he paused for breath, *‘I wonder if you’d tell me
something about your mother?’’

Abruptly he quit pacing, and the look he shot at me made me
sense that somehow the chance question had hit him. When I
look back at it now, I believe I must have caught him so phys-
ically weak that his defenses were vulnerable.

Slowly, Malcolm X began to talk, now walking in a tight
circle. ‘‘She was always standing over the stove, trying to stretch
whatever we had to eat. We stayed so hungry that we were
dizzy. I remember the color of dresses she used to wear—they
were a kind of faded-out gray. .. .’’ And he kept on talking
until dawn, so tired that the big feet would often almost stumble
in their pacing. From this stream-of-consciousness reminiscing
I finally got out of him the foundation for this book’s beginning
chapters, ‘‘Nightmare’’ and ‘‘Mascot.’’ After that night, he
never again hesitated to tell me even the most intimate details

398 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

of his personal life, over the next two years. His talking about
his mother triggered something.

Malcolm X’s mood ranged from somber to grim as he recalled
his childhood. I remember his making a great point of how he
learned what had been a cardinal awareness of his ever since:
‘It’s the hinge that squeaks that gets the grease.’’ When his
narration reached his moving to Boston to live with his half-
sister Ella, Malcolm X began to laugh about how “‘square’’ he
had been in the ghetto streets. ‘“‘Why, I’m telling you things I
haven’t thought about since then!’’ he would exclaim. Then it
was during recalling the early Harlem days that Malcolm X
really got carried away. One night, suddenly, wildly, he jumped
up from his chair and, incredibly, the fearsome black dema-
gogue was scat-singing and popping his fingers, ‘‘re-bop-de-
bop-blap-blam—’’ and then grabbing a vertical pipe with one
hand (as the girl partner) he went jubilantly lindy-hopping
around, his coattail and the long legs and the big feet flying as
they had in those Harlem days. And then almost as suddenly,
Malcolm X caught himself and sat back down, and for the rest
of that session he was decidedly grumpy. Later on in the Harlem
narrative, he grew somber again. ‘‘The only thing I considered
wrong was what I got caught doing wrong. I had a jungle mind,
I was living in a jungle, and everything I did was done by instinct
to survive.’’ But he stressed that he had no regrets about his
crimes, ““because it was all a result of what happens to thousands
upon thousands of black men in the white man’s Christian
world.”’

His enjoyment resumed when the narrative entered his prison
days. ‘‘Let me tell you how I’d get those white devil convicts
and the guards, too, to do anything I wanted. I’d whisper to
them, ‘If you don’t, I’ll start a rumor that you’re really a light
Negro just passing as white.’ That shows you what the white
devil thinks about the black man. He’d rather die than be thought
a Negro!’’ He told me about the reading he had been able to do
in prison: ‘‘I didn’t know what I was doing, but just by instinct
I liked the books with intellectual vitamins.’’ And another time:
‘In the hectic pace of the world today, there is no time for
meditation, or for deep thought. A prisoner has time that he can
put to good use. I’d put prison second to college as the best

EPILOGUE 399

place for a man to go if he needs to do some thinking. If he’s
motivated, in prison he can change his life.’’

Yet another time, Malcolm X reflected, ‘‘Once a man has
been to prison, he never looks at himself or at other people the
same again. The ‘squares’ out here whose boat has been in
smooth waters all the time turn up their noses at an ex-con. But
an ex-con can keep his head up when the ‘squares’ sink.’’

He scribbled that night (I kept both my notebooks and the
paper napkins dated): ‘‘This WM created and dropped A-bomb
on non-whites; WM now calls ‘Red’ and lives in fear of other
WM he knows may bomb us.’’

Also: ‘‘Learn wisdom from the pupil of the eye that looks
upon all things and yet to self is blind. Persian poet.”’

At intervals, Malcolm X would make a great point of stressing
to me, ‘‘Now, I don’t want anything in this book to make it
sound that I think I’m somebody important.’’ I would assure
him that I would try not to, and that in any event he would be
checking the manuscript page by page, and ultimately the galley
proofs. At other times, he would end an attack upon the white
man and, watching me take the notes, exclaim. ‘‘That devil’s
not going to print that, I don’t care what he says!’’ I would point
out that the publishers had made a binding contract and had paid
a sizable sum in advance. Malcolm X would say, ‘You trust
them, and I don’t. You studied what he wanted you to learn
about him in schools, I studied him in the streets and in prison,
where you see the truth.”’

Experiences which Malcolm X had had during a day could
flavor his interview mood. The most wistful, tender anecdotes
generally were told on days when some incident had touched
him. Once, for instance, he told me that he had learned that a
Harlem couple, not Black Muslims, had named their newborn
son ‘‘Malcolm’’ after him. ‘“What do you know about that?’’
he kept exclaiming. And that was the night he went back to his
own boyhood again and this time recalled how he used to lie on
his back on Hector’s Hill and think. That night, too: ‘‘I’ll never
forget the day they elected me the class president. A girl named
Audrey Slaugh, whose father owned a car repair shop, nomi-
nated me. And a boy named James Cotton seconded the nomi-
nation. The teacher asked me to leave the room while the class

400 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

voted. When I returned I was the class president. I couldn’t
believe it.”’

Any interesting book which Malcolm X had read could get
him going about his love of books. ‘‘People don’t realize how
a man’s whole life can be changed by one book.’’ He came back
again and again to the books that he had studied when in prison.
‘‘Did you ever read The Loom of Language?’’ he asked me and
I said I hadn’t. ‘‘You should. Philology, it’s a tough science—
all about how words can be recognized, no matter where you
find them. Now, you take ‘Caesar,’ it’s Latin, in Latin it’s pro-
nounced like ‘Kaiser,’ with a hard C. But we anglicize it by
pronouncing a soft C. The Russians say ‘Czar’ and mean the
same thing. Another Russian dialect says ‘Tsar.’ Jakob Gnmm
was one of the foremost philologists, I studied his “‘Grimm’s
Law’ in prison—all about consonants. Philology is related to the
science of etymology, dealing in root words. I dabbled in both
of them.”’

When I turn that page in my notebook, the next bears a note
that Malcolm X had telephoned me saying ‘‘I’m going to be out
of town for a few days.’’ I assumed that as had frequently been
the case before, he had speaking engagements or other Muslim
business to attend somewhere and I was glad for the respite in
which to get my notes separated under the chapter headings they
would fit. But when Malcolm X returned this time, he reported
triumphantly, ‘‘I have something to tell you that will surprise
you. Ever since we discussed my mother, I’ve been thinking
about her. I realized that I had blocked her out of my mind—it
was just unpleasant to think about her having been twenty-some
years in that mental hospital.’’ He said, ‘‘I don’t want to take
the credit. It was really my sister Yvonne who thought it might
be possible to get her out. Yvonne got my brothers Wilfred,
Wesley and Philbert together, and I went out there, too. It was
Philbert who really handled it.

‘“It made me face something about myself,’’ Malcolm X said.
‘*My mind had closed about our mother. I simply didn’t feel the
problem could be solved, so I had shut it out. I had built up
subconscious defenses. The white man does this. He shuts out
of his mind, and he builds up subconscious defenses against
anything he doesn’t want to face up to. I’ve just become aware
how closed my mind was now that I’ve opened it up again.

EPILOGUE 401

That’s one of the characteristics I don’t like about myself. If I
meet a problem I feel I can’t solve, I shut it out. I make believe
that it doesn’t exist. But it exists.’

It was my turn to be deeply touched. Not long afterward, he
was again away for a few days. When he returned this time, he
said that at his brother Philbert’s home, ‘‘we had dinner with
our mother for the first time in all those years!’’ He said, ‘‘She’s
sixty-six, and her memory is better than mine and she looks
young and healthy. She has more of her teeth than those who
were instrumental in sending her to the institution.’’

When something had angered Malcolm X during the day, his
face would be flushed redder when he visited me, and he gen-
erally would spend much of the session lashing out bitterly.
When some Muslims were shot by Los Angeles policemen, one
of them being killed, Malcolm X, upon his return from a trip he
made there, was fairly apoplectic for a week. It had been in this
mood that he had made, in Los Angeles, the statement which
caused him to be heavily censured by members of both races.
‘I’ve just heard some good news!’’—referring to a plane crash
at Orly Field in Paris in which thirty-odd white Americans,
mostly from Atlanta, Georgia, had been killed instantly. (Mal-
colm X never publicly recanted this statement, to my knowl-
edge, but much later he said to me simply, “‘That’s one of the
things I wish I had never said.’’)

Anytime the name of the present Federal Judge Thurgood
Marshall was raised, Malcolm X still practically spat fire in
memory of what the judge had said years before when he was
the N.A.A.C.P. chief attorney: ‘‘The Muslims are run by a
bunch of thugs organized from prisons and jails and financed, I
am sure, by some Arab group.’’ The only time that I have ever
heard Malcolm X use what might be construed as a curse word,
it was a ‘‘hell’’ used in response to a statement that Dr. Martin
Luther King made that Malcolm X’s talk brought ‘‘misery upon
Negroes.’ Malcolm X exploded to me, ‘‘How in the hell can
my talk do this? It’s always a Negro responsible, not what the
white man does!’’ The ‘‘extremist’’ or ‘‘demagogue’’ accusa-
tion invariably would burn Malcolm X. ‘‘Yes, I’m an extremist.
The black race here in North America is in extremely bad con-

402 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

dition. You show me a black man who isn’t an extremist and
I’ll show you one who needs psychiatric attention!’

Once when he said, ‘‘Aristotle shocked people. Charles Dar-
win Outraged people. Aldous Huxley scandalized millions!”’
Malcolm X immediately followed the statement with ‘‘Don’t
print that, people would think I’m trying to link myself with
them.’’ Another time, when something provoked him to ex-
claim, ‘‘These Uncle Toms make me think about how the
Prophet Jesus was criticized in his own country!’’ Malcolm X
promptly got up and silently took my notebook, tore out that
page and crumpled it and put it into his pocket, and he was
considerably subdued during the remainder of that session.

I remember one time we talked and he showed me a news-
paper clipping reporting where a Negro baby had been bitten by
a rat. Malcolm X said, ‘‘Now, just read that, just think of that
a minute! Suppose it was your child! Where’s that slumlord—
on some beach in Miami!’’ He continued fuming throughout our
interview. I did not go with him when later that day he addressed
a Negro audience in Harlem and an incident occurred which
Helen Dudar reported in the New York Post.

‘Malcolm speaking in Harlem stared down at one of the white
reporters present, the only whites admitted to the meeting, and
went on, ‘Now, there’s a reporter who hasn’t taken a note in
half an hour, but as soon as I start talking about the Jews, he’s
busy taking notes to prove that I’m anti-Semitic.’

‘‘Behind the reporter, a male voice spoke up, ‘Kill the bas-
tard, kill them all.’ The young man, in his unease, smiled ner-
vously and Malcolm jeered, “Look at him laugh. He’s really not
laughing, he’s just laughing with his teeth.’ An ugly tension
curled the edges of the atmosphere. Then Malcolm went on:
‘The white man doesn’t know how to laugh. He just shows his
teeth. But we know how to laugh. We laugh deep down, from
the bottom up.’ The audience laughed, deep down, from the
bottom up and, as suddenly as Malcolm had stirred it, so, skill-
fully and swiftly, he deflected it. It had been at once a masterful
and shabby performance.”’

I later heard somewhere, or read, that Malcolm X telephoned
an apology to the reporter. But this was the kind of evidence
which caused many close observers of the Malcolm X phenom-
enon to declare in absolute seriousness that he was the only

EPILOGUE 403

Negro in America who could either start a race riot—or stop
one. When I once quoted this to him, tacitly inviting his com-
ment, he told me tartly, ‘‘I don’t know if I could start one. I
don’t know if I’d want to stop one.’’ It was the kind of statement
he relished making.

Over the months, I had gradually come to establish something
of a telephone acquaintance with Malcolm X’s wife, whom I
addressed as ‘‘Sister Betty,’’ as I had heard the Muslims do. I
admired how she ran a home, with, then, three small daughters,
and still managed to take all of the calls which came for
Malcolm X, surely as many calls as would provide a job for an
average switchboard operator. Sometimes when he was with
me, he would telephone home and spend as much as five min-
utes rapidly jotting on a pad the various messages which had
been left for him.

Sister Betty, generally friendly enough on the phone with me,
sometimes would exclaim in spontaneous indignation, ‘““The man
never gets any sleep!’’ Malcolm X rarely put in less than an
18-hour workday. Often when he had left my studio at four A.M.
and a 40-minute drive lay between him and home in East Elm-
hurst, Long Island, he had asked me to telephone him there at
nine A.M. Usually this would be when he wanted me to accom-
pany him somewhere, and he was going to tell me, after review-
ing his commitments, when and where he wanted me to meet
him. (There were times when I didn’t get an awful lot of sleep,
myself.) He was always accompanied, either by some of his
Muslim colleagues like James 67X (the 67th man named
‘‘James’’ who had joined Harlem’s Mosque Number 7), or
Charles 37X, or by me, but he never asked me to be with him
when they were. I went with him to college and university lec-
tures, to radio and television stations for his broadcasts, and to
public appearances in a variety of situations and locations.

If we were driving somewhere, motorists along the highway
would wave to Malcolm X, the faces of both whites and Negroes
spontaneously aglow with the wonderment that I had seen evoked
by other ‘‘celebrities.’’ No few airline hostesses had come to
know him, because he flew so much; they smiled prettily at him,
he was in turn the essence of courtly gentlemanliness, and in-
evitably the word spread and soon an unusual flow of bathroom

404 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

traffic would develop, passing where he sat. Whenever we ar-
rived at our destination, it became familiar to hear ‘‘There’s
Malcolm X!’’ ‘‘Where?’’ ‘‘The tall one.’’ Passers-by of both
races stared at him. A few of both races, more Negroes than
whites, would speak or nod to him in greeting. A high percent-
age of white people were visibly uncomfortable in his presence,
especially within the confines of small areas, such as in eleva-
tors. ‘‘I’m the only black man they’ve ever been close to who
they know speaks the truth to them,’’ Malcolm X once ex-
plained to me. ‘‘It’s their guilt that upsets them, not me.’’ He
said another time, ‘‘The white man is afraid of truth. The truth
takes the white man’s breath and drains his strength—you just
watch his face get red anytime you tell him a little truth.’’

There was something about this man when he was in a room
with people. He.commanded the room, whoever else was pres-
ent. Even out of doors; once I remember in Harlem he sat on a
speaker’s stand between Congressman Adam Clayton Powell
and the former Manhattan Borough President Hulan Jack, and
when the street rally was over the crowd focus was chiefly on
Malcolm X. I remember another time that we had gone by rail-
way from New York City to Philadelphia where he appeared in
the Philadelphia Convention Hall on the radio station WCAU
program of Ed Harvey. ‘‘You are the man who has said ‘All
Negroes are angry and J am the angriest of all’; is that correct?”’
asked Harvey, on the air, introducing Malcolm X, and as Mal-
colm X said crisply, ‘‘That quote is correct!’’ the gathering
crowd of bystanders stared at him, riveted.

We had nidden to Philadelphia in reserved parlor car seats. “‘I
can’t get caught on a coach, I could get into trouble on a coach,”’
Malcolm X had said. Walking to board the parlor car, we had
passed a dining car toward which he jerked his head, ‘‘I used to
work on that thing.’’ Riding to our destination, he conversation-
ally told me that the F.B.I. had tried to bribe him for information
about Elijah Muhammad; that he wanted me to be sure and read
a new book, Crisis in Black and White by Charles Silberman—
‘‘one of the very few white wniters I know with the courage to
tell his kind the truth’’; and he asked me to make a note to please
telephone the New York Post’s feature writer Helen Dudar
and tell her he thought very highly of her recent series—he did
not want to commend her directly.

EPILOGUE 405

After the Ed Harvey Show was concluded, we took the train
to return to New York City. The parlor car, packed with busi-
nessmen behind their newspapers, commuting homeward after
their workdays, was electric with Malcolm X’s presence. After
the white-jacketed Negro porter had made several trips up and
down the aisle, he was in the middle of another trip when Mal-
colm X sotto-voced in my ear, ‘‘He used to work with me, I
forget his name, we worked right on this very train together. He
knows it’s me. He’s trying to make up his mind what to do.’’
The porter went on past us, poker-faced. But when he came
through again, Malcolm X suddenly leaned forward from his
seat, smiling at the porter. ‘“Why, sure, I know who you are!”’
the porter suddenly said, loudly. ‘“You washed dishes right on
this train! I was just telling some of the fellows you were in my
car here. We all follow you!’’

The tension on the car could have been cut with a knife. Then,
soon, the porter returned to Malcolm X, his voice expansive. ‘‘One
of our guests would like to meet you.’’ Now a young, clean-
cut white man rose and came up, his hand extended, and Mal-
colm X rose and shook the proffered hand firmly. Newspapers
dropped just below eye-level the length of the car. The young
white man explained distinctly, loudly, that he had been in the
Orient for a while, and now was studying at Columbia. “‘I don’t
agree with everything you say,’’ he told Malcolm X, ‘‘but I
have to admire your presentation.”’

Malcolm’s voice in reply was cordiality itself. ‘‘I don’t think
you could search America, sir, and find two men who agree on
everything.’’ Subsequently, to another white man, an older busi-
nessman, who came up and shook hands, he said evenly, ‘‘Sir,
I know how you feel. It’s a hard thing to speak out against me
when you are agreeing with so much that I say.’’ And we rode
on into New York under, now, a general open gazing.

In Washington, D.C., Malcolm X slashed at the govern-
ment’s reluctance to take positive steps in the Negro’s behalf. I
gather that even the White House took notice, for not long af-
terward I left off interviewing Malcolm X for a few days and
went to the White House to do a Playboy interview of the then
White House Press Secretary Pierre Salinger, who grimaced
spontaneously when I said I was writing the life story of Mal-
colm X. Another time I left Malcolm X to interview the U.S.

406 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Nazi Party Commander George Lincoln Rockwell, who frankly
stated that he admired the courage of Malcolm X, and he felt
that the two of them should speak together across the United
States, and they could thus begin a real solution to the race
problem—one of voluntary separation of the white and black
races, with Negroes returning to Africa. I reported this to Mal-
colm X, who snorted, ‘‘He must think I’m nuts! What am /
going to look like going speaking with a devil!’ Yet another
time, I went off to Atlanta and interviewed for Playboy Dr.
Martin Luther King. He was privately intrigued to hear little-
known things about Malcolm X that I told him; for publication,
he discussed him with reserve, and he did say that he would
sometime like to have an opportunity to talk with him. Hearing
this, Malcolm X said drily, ‘‘You think I ought to send him a
telegram with my telephone number?’’ (But from other things
that Malcolm X said to me at various times, I deduced that he
actually had a reluctant admiration for Dr. King.)

Malcolm X and I reached the point, ultimately, where we
shared a mutual camaraderie that, although it was never verbally
expressed, was a warm one. He was for me unquestionably one
of the most engaging personalities I had ever met, and for his
part, I gathered, I was someone he had learned he could express
himself to, with candor, without the likelihood of hearing it
repeated, and like any person who lived amid tension, he en-
joyed being around someone, another man, with whom he could
psychically relax. When I made trips now, he always asked me
to telephone him when I would be returning to New York, and
generally, if he could squeeze it into his schedule, he met me at
the airport. I would see him coming along with his long, gan-
gling strides, and wearing the wide, toothy, good-natured grin,
and as he drove me into New York City he would bring me up
to date on things of interest that had happened since I left. I
remember one incident within the airport that showed me how
Malcolm X never lost his racial perspective. Waiting for my
baggage, we witnessed a touching family reunion scene as part
of which several cherubic little children romped and played,
exclaiming in another language. ‘‘By tomorrow night. they’ll
know how to say their first English word—nigger,’’ observed
Malcolm X.

When Malcolm X made long trips, such as to San Francisco

EPILOGUE 407

or Los Angeles, I did not go along, but frequently, usually very
late at night, he would telephone me, and ask how the book was
coming along, and he might set up the time for our next inter-
view upon his return. One call that I never will forget came at
close to four A.M., waking me; he must have just gotten up in
Los Angeles. His voice said, “‘Alex Haley?’’ I said, sleepily,
‘*Yes? Oh, hey, Malcolm!’’ His voice said, ‘‘I trust you seventy
per cent’’—and then he hung up. I lay a short time thinking
about him and I went back to sleep feeling warmed by that
call, as I still am warmed to remember it. Neither of us ever
mentioned it.

Malcolm X’s growing respect for individual whites seemed
to be reserved for those who ignored on a personal basis the
things he said about whites and who jousted with him as a man.
He, moreover, was convinced that he could tell a lot about any
person by listening. ‘‘There’s an art to listening well,’’ he told
me. ‘‘I listen closely to the sound of a man’s voice when he’s
speaking. I can hear sincerity.’’ The newspaper person whom
he ultimately came to admire probably more than any other was
the New York Times’ M. S. Handler. (I was very happy when I
learned that Handler had agreed to write this book’s Introduc-
tion; I know that Malcolm X would have liked that.) The first
time I ever heard Malcolm X speak of Handler, whom he had
recently met, he began, ‘‘I was talking with this devil—’’ and
abruptly he cut himself off in obvious embarrassment. “‘It’s a
reporter named Handler, from the 7Jimes—’’ he resumed. Mal-
colm X’s respect for the man steadily increased, and Handler,
for his part, was an influence upon the inner Malcolm X. ‘“He’s
the most genuinely unprejudiced white man I ever met,’’ Mal-
colm X said to me, speaking of Handler months later. ‘‘I have
asked him things and tested him. I have listened to him talk,
closely.’’

I saw Malcolm X too many times exhilarated in after-lecture
give-and-take with predominantly white student bodies at col-
leges and universities to ever believe that he nurtured at his core
any blanket white-hatred. ‘“The young whites, and blacks, too,
are the only hope that America has,’’ he said to me once. ‘‘The
rest of us have always been living in a lie.”’

Several Negroes come to mind now who I know, in one way
or another, had vastly impressed Malcolm X. (Some others come

408 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

to mind whom I know he has vastly abhorred, but these I will
not mention.) Particularly high in his esteem, I know, was the
great photographer, usually associated with Life magazine, Gor-
don Parks. It was Malcolm X’s direct influence with Elijah Mu-
hammad which got Parks permitted to enter and photograph for
publication in Life the highly secret self-defense training pro-
gram of the Black Muslim Fruit of Islam, making Parks, as far
as I know, the only non-Muslim who ever has witnessed this,
except for policemen and other agency representatives who had
feigned ‘‘joining’’ the Black Muslims to infiltrate them. ‘‘His
success among the white man never has made him lose touch
with black reality,’’ Malcolm X said of Parks once.

Another person toward whom Malcolm X felt similarly was
the actor Ossie Davis. Once in the middle of one of our inter-
views, when we had been taiking about something else, Mal-
colm X suddenly asked me, “‘Do you know Ossie Davis?’’ I
said I didn’t. He said, ‘“‘I ought to introduce you sometime,
that’s one of the finest black men.’’ In Malcolm X’s long deal-
ings with the staff of the Harlem weekly newspaper Amsterdam
News, he had come to admire Executive Editor James Hicks and
the star feature writer James Booker. He said that Hicks had ‘‘an
open mind, and he never panics for the white man.’’ He thought
that Booker was an outstanding reporter; he also was highly
impressed with Mrs. Booker when he met her.

It was he who introduced me to two of my friends today, Dr.
C. Enc Lincoln who was at the time writing the book The Black
Muslims in America, and Louis Lomax who was then wniting
various articles about the Muslims. Malcolm X deeply respected
the care and depth which Dr. Lincoln was putting into his re-
search. Lomax, he admired for his ferreting ear and eye for hot
news. “‘If I see that rascal Lomax running somewhere, I'll grab
my hat and get behind him,’’ Malcolm X said once, ‘‘because
I know he’s onto something.’’ Author James Baldwin Mal-
colm X also admired. “‘He’s so brilliant he confuses the white
man with words on paper.’’ And another time, ‘‘He’s upset the
white man more than anybody except The Honorable Elijah
Muhammad.’’

Malcolm X had very little good to say of Negro ministers,
very possibly because most of them had attacked the Black
Muslims. Excepting reluctant admiration of Dr. Martin Luther

EPILOGUE 409

King, I heard him speak well of only one other, The Reverend
Eugene L. Callender of Harlem’s large Presbyterian Church of
the Master. ‘“He’s a preacher, but he’s a fighter for the black
man,’’ said Malcolm X. I later learned that somewhere the di-
rect, forthright Reverend Callender had privately cornered Mal-
colm X and had read him the riot act about his general attacks
upon the Negro clergy. Malcolm X also admired The Reverend
Adam Clayton Powell, in his Congressman politica! role: *‘IT’d
think about retiring if the black man had ten like him in Wash-
ington.’’ He had similar feelings about the N.A.A.C.P. lawyer,
now a New York State Assemblyman, Percy Sutton, and later
Sutton was retained as his personal attorney. Among Negro ed-
ucators, of whom Malcolm X met many in his college and uni-
versity lecturing, I never heard him speak well of any but one,
Dr. Kenneth B. Clark. “‘There’s a black man with brains gone
to bed,’’ Malcolm X told me once, briefly lapsing into his old
vernacular. He had very distinct reservations about Negro pro-
fessional intelligentsia as a category. They were the source from
which most of the Black Muslims’ attackers came. It was for
this reason that some of his most bristling counter-attacks against
‘‘these so-called educated Uncle Thomases, Ph.D.’’ were flung
out at his audiences at Negro institutions of higher learning.

Where I witnessed the Malcolm X who was happiest and most
at ease among members of our own race was when sometimes
I chanced to accompany him on what he liked to call “‘my little
daily rounds’’ around the streets of Harlem, among the Negroes
that he said the ‘‘so-called black leaders’’ spoke of ‘‘as black
masses statistics.’’ On these tours, Malcolm X generally avoided
the arterial 125th Street in Harlem; he plied the side streets,
especially in those areas which were thickest with what he de-
scribed as ‘‘the black man down in the gutter where I came
from,’’ the poverty-ridden with a high incidence of dope addicts
and winos.

Malcolm X here indeed was a hero. Striding along the side-
walks, he bathed all whom he met in the boyish grin, and his
conversation with any who came up was quiet and pleasant.
‘*It’s just what the white devil wants you to do, brother,’’ he
might tell a wino, ‘‘he wants you to get drunk so he will have
an excuse to put a club up beside your head.’’ Or I remember
once he halted at a stoop to greet several older women: ‘‘Sisters,

410 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

let me ask you something,’’ he said conversationally, ‘“have you
ever known one white man who either didn’t do something to
you, or take something from you?’’ One among that audience
exclaimed after a moment, ‘‘I sure ain’t!’’ whereupon all of
them joined in laughter and we walked on with Malcolm X
waving back to cries of ‘‘He’s right!”’

I remember that once in the early evening we rounded a corner
to hear a man, shabbily dressed, haranguing a small crowd
around his speaking platform of an upturned oblong wooden box
with an American flag alongside. ‘‘I don’t respect or believe in
this damn flag, it’s there because I can’t hold a public meeting
without it unless I want the white man to put me in jail. And
that’s what I’m up here to talk about—these crackers getting rich
off the blood and bones of your and my people!’’ Said Mal-
colm X, grinning, ‘‘He’s working!”’

Malcolm X rarely exchanged any words with those Negro
men with shiny, ‘“‘processed’’ hair without giving them a nudge.
Very genially: ‘‘Ahhhh, brother, the white devil has taught you
to hate yourself so much that you put hot lye in your hair to
make it look more like his hair.’’

I remember another stoopful of women alongside the door of
a small grocery store where I had gone for something, leaving
Malcolm X talking across the street. As I came out of the store,
one woman was excitedly describing for the rest a Malcolm X
lecture she had heard in Mosque Number 7 one Sunday.
‘‘Oooooh, he burnt that white man, burnt him up, chile...
chile, he told us we descendin’ from black kings an’ queens—
Lawd, I didn’t know it!’’ Another woman asked, ‘‘ You believe
that?’’ and the first vehemently responded, ‘‘Yes, I do!”’

And I remember a lone, almost ragged guitarist huddled on a
side street playing and singing just for himself when he glanced
up and instantly recognized the oncoming, striding figure. ‘‘Huh-
ho!’ the guitarist exclaimed, and jumping up, he snapped into
a mock salute. “‘My man!’’

Malcolm X loved it. And they loved him. There was no ques-
tion about it: whether he was standing tall beside a street lamp
chatting with winos, or whether he was firing his radio and
television broadsides to unseen millions of people, or whether
he was titillating small audiences of sophisticated whites with
his small-talk such as, “‘My hobby is stirring up Negroes, that’s

EPILOGUE 411

spelled knee-grows the way you liberals pronounce it’’—the man
had charisma, and he had power. And I was not the only one
who at various times marveled at how he could continue to
receive such an awesome amount of international personal pub-
licity and still season liberally practically everything he said,
both in public and privately, with credit and hosannas to ‘‘The
Honorable Elijah Muhammad.’’ Often I made side notes to my-
self about this. I kept, in effect, a double-entry set of notebooks.
Once, noting me switching from one to the other, Malcolm X
curiously asked me what for? I told him some reason, but not
that one notebook was things he said for his book and the other
was for my various personal observations about him; very likely
he would have become self-conscious. ‘“You must have written
a million words by now,’’ said Malcolm X. ‘‘Probably,’’ I said.
‘This white man’s crazy,’’ he mused. ‘“‘I’ll prove it to you. Do
you think I’d publicize somebody knocking me like I do him?”’

‘“Look, tell me the truth,’’ Malcolm X said to me one eve-
ning, ‘‘you travel around. Have you heard anything?”’

Truthfully, I told him I didn’t know what he had reference to.
He dropped it and talked of something else.

From Malcolm X himself, I had seen, or heard, a few unusual
things which had caused me some little private wonder and spec-
ulation, and then, with nothing to hang them onto, I had dis-
missed them. One day in his car, we had stopped for the red
light at an intersection; another car with a white man driving
had stopped alongside, and when this white man saw Malcolm X,
he instantly called across to him, ‘“‘I don’t blame your people
for turning to you. If I were a Negro I’d follow you, too. Keep
up the fight!’’ Malcolm X said to the man very sincerely, ‘‘I
wish I could have a white chapter of the people I meet like you.”’
The light changed, and as both cars drove on, Malcolm X quickly
said to me, firmly, ‘‘Not only don’t write that, never repeat it.
Mr. Muhammad would have a fit.”’ The significant thing about
the incident, I later reflected, was that it was the first time I had
ever heard him speak of Elijah Muhammad with anything less
than reverence.

About the same time, one of the scribblings of Malcolm X’s
that I had retrieved had read, enigmatically, ‘‘My life has always
been one of changes.’’ Another time, this was in September,

412 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

1963, Malcolm X had been highly upset about something during
an entire session, and when I read the Amsterdam News for that
week, I guessed that he had been upset about an item in Jimmy
Booker’s column that Booker had heard that Elijah Muhammad
and Malcolm X were feuding. (Booker was later to reveal that
after his column was written, he had gone on vacation, and on
his return he learned that Malcolm X ‘‘stormed into the Amster-
dam News with three followers . . . ‘I want to see Jimmy Booker.
I don’t like what he wrote. There is no fight between me and
Elijah Muhammad. I believe in Mr. Muhammad and will lay
down my life for him.’ ’’)

Also, now and then, when I chanced to meet a few other key
Muslims, mainly when I was with Malcolm X, but when he was
not immediately present, I thought I detected either in subtle
phrasing, or in manner, something less than total admiration of
their famous colleague—and then I would tell myself I had mis-
interpreted. And during these days, Dr. C. Eric Lincoln and I
would talk on the phone fairly often. We rarely would fail to
mention how it seemed almost certain that seeds of trouble lay
in the fact that however much Malcolm X praised Elijah Mu-
hammad, it was upon dramatic, articulate Malcolm X that the
communications media and hence the general public focused the
great bulk of their attention. I never dreamed, though, what
Malcolm X was actually going through. He never breathed a
word, at least not to me, until the actual rift became public.

When Malcolm X left me at around two A.M. on that occa-
sion, he asked me to call him at nine A.M. The telephone in the
home in East Elmhurst rang considerably longer than usual, and
Sister Betty, when she answered, sounded strained, choked up.
When Malcolm X came on, he, too, sounded different. He asked
me, “‘Have you heard the radio or seen the newspapers?’’ I said
I hadn’t. He said, ‘‘Well, do!’’ and that he would call me later.

I went and got the papers. I read with astonishment that Mal-
colm X had been suspended by Elijah Muhammad—the stated
reason being the ‘‘chickens coming home to roost’’ remark that
Malcolm X recently had made as a comment upon the assassi-
nation of President Kennedy.

Malcolm X did telephone, after about an hour, and I met him
at the Black Muslims’ newspaper office in Harlem, a couple of
blocks further up Lenox Avenue from their mosque and restau-

EPILOGUE 413

rant. He was seated behind his light-brown metal desk and his
brown hat lay before him on the green blotter. He wore a dark
suit with a vest, a white shirt, the inevitable leaping-sailfish clip
held his narrow tie, and the big feet in the shined black shoes
pushed the swivel chair pendulously back and forth as he talked
into the telephone.

‘“‘T’m always hurt over any act of disobedience on my part
conceming Mr. Muhammad... . Yes, sir—anything The Hon-
orable Elijah Muhammad does is all right with me. I believe
absolutely in his wisdom and authority.’’ The telephone would
ring again instantly every time he put it down. ‘‘Mr. Peter Gold-
man! I haven’t heard your voice in a good while! Well, sir, I
just should have kept my big mouth shut.’’ To the New York
Times: ‘‘Sir? Yes—he suspended me from making public ap-
pearances for the time being, which I fully understand. I say the
same thing to you that I have told others, I’m in complete sub-
mission to Mr. Muhammad’s judgment, because I have always
found his judgment to be based on sound thinking.’’ To C.B.S.:
‘*T think that anybody who is in a position to discipline others
should first learn to accept discipline himself.’’

He brought it off, the image of contriteness, the best he could—
throughout the harshly trying next several weeks. But the back
of his neck was reddish every time I saw him. He did not yet
put into words his obvious fury at the public humiliation. We
did very little interviewing now, he was so busy on telephones
elsewhere; but it did not matter too much because by now I had
the bulk of the needed life story material in hand. When he did
find some time to visit me, he was very preoccupied, and I could
feel him rankling with anger and with inactivity, but he tried
hard to hide it.

He scribbled one night, ““You have not converted a man be-
cause you have silenced him. John Viscount Morley.’’ And the
same night, almost illegibly, ‘‘I was going downhill until he
picked me up, but the more I think of it, we picked each other
up.”’

When I did not see him for several days, a letter came. ‘‘I
have cancelled all public appearances and speaking engage-
ments for a number of weeks. So within that period it should be
possible to finish this book. With the fast pace of newly devel-
oping incidents today, it is easy for something that is done or

414 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

said tomorrow to be outdated even by sunset on the same day.
Malcolm X.”’

I pressed to get the first chapter, ‘*Nightmare,’’ into a shape
that he could review. When it was ready in a readable rough
draft, I telephoned him. He came as quickly as he could drive
from his home—which made me see how grinding an ordeal it
was to him to just be sitting at home, inactive, and knowing his
temperament, my sympathies went out to Sister Betty.

He pored over the manuscript pages, raptly the first ime, then
drawing out his red-ink ball-point pen he read through the chap-
ter again, with the pen occasionally stabbing at something. ‘*You
can’t bless Allah!’’ he exclaimed, changing ‘‘bless’’ to
‘‘praise.’’ In a place that referred to himself and his brothers
and sisters, he scratched red through ‘‘we kids.’’ ‘‘Kids are
goats!’ he exclaimed sharply.

Soon, Malcolm X and his family flew to Miami. Cassius Clay
had extended the invitation as a sixth wedding anniversary pres-
ent to Malcolm X and Sister Betty, and they had accepted most
gratefully. It was Sister Betty’s first vacation in the six years of
the taut regimen as a Black Muslim wife, and it was for Mal-
colm X both a saving of face and something to do.

Very soon after his arrival, he telegraphed me his phone num-
ber at a motel. I called him and he told me, ‘‘I just want to tell
you something. I’m not a betting man anymore, but if you are,
you bet on Cassius to beat Liston, and you will win.”’ I laughed
and said he was prejudiced. He said, ‘‘Remember what I told
you when the fight’s over.’’ I received later a picture postcard,
the picture in vivid colors being of a chimpanzee at the Monkey
Jungle in Miami. Malcolm X had written on the reverse side,
‘One hundred years after the Civil War, and these chimpanzees
get more recognition, respect and freedom in America than our
people do. Bro. Malcolm X.’’ Another time, an envelope came,
and inside it was a clipping of an Irv Kupcinet column in the
Chicago Sun-Times. Malcolm X’s red pen had encircled an item
which read, “‘Insiders are predicting a split in the Black Mus-
lims. Malcolm X, ousted as No. 2 man in the organization, may
form a splinter group to oppose Elijah Muhammad.’’ Alongside
the item, Malcolm X had scribbled ‘‘Imagine this!!!’’

The night of the phenomenal upset, when Clay did beat Lis-
ton, Malcolm X telephoned me, and sounds of excitement were

EPILOGUE 415

in the background. The victory party was in his motel suite,
Malcolm X told me. He described what was happening, men-
tioned some of those who were present, and that the new heavy-
weight king was ‘‘in the next room, my bedroom here’’ taking
a nap. After reminding me of the fight prediction he had made,
Malcolm X said that I should look forward now to Clay’s ‘‘quick
development into a major world figure. I don’t know if you
really realize the world significance that this is the first Muslim
champion. ”’

It was the following morning when Cassius Clay gave the
press interview which resulted in national headlines that he was
actually a ‘‘Black Muslim,’’ and soon after, the newspapers
were carrying pictures of Malcolm X introducing the heavy-
weight champion to various African diplomats in the lobbies of
the United Nations headquarters in New York City. Malcolm X
toured Clay about in Harlem, and in other places, functioning,
he said, as Clay’s ‘‘friend and religious advisor.’’

I had now moved upstate to finish my work on the book, and
we talked on the telephone every three or four days. He said
things suggesting that he might never be returned to his former
Black Muslim post, and he now began to say things quietly
critical of Elijah Muhammad. Playboy magazine asked me to
do an interview for them with the new champion Cassius Clay,
and when I confidently asked Malcolm X to arrange for me the
needed introduction to Clay, Malcolm X hesitantly said, “‘I think
you had better ask somebody else to do that.’’ I was highly
surprised at the reply, but I had learned never to press him for
information. And then, very soon after, I received a letter. ‘“Dear
Alex Haley: A quick note. Would you prepare a properly worded
letter that would enable me to change the reading of the contract
so that ali remaining proceeds now would go to the Muslim
Mosque, Inc., or in the case of my death then to go directly to
my wife, Mrs. Betty X Little? The sooner this letter or contract
is changed, the more easily I will rest.’’ Under the signature of
Malcolm X, there was a P.S.: ‘‘How is it possible to write one’s
autobiography in a world so fast-changing as this?’’

Soon I read in the various newspapers that rumors were being
heard of threats on Malcolm X’s life. Then there was an article
in the Amsterdam News: The caption was ‘‘Malcolm X Tells Of
Death Threat,’’ and the story reported that he had said that for-

416 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

mer close associates of his in the New York mosque had sent
out ‘‘a special squad’’ to ‘‘try to kill me in cold blood. Thanks
to Allah, I learned of the plot from the very same brothers who
had been sent out to murder me. These brothers had heard me
represent and defend Mr. Muhammad for too long for them to
swallow the lies about me without first asking me some ques-
tions for their own clarification.”’

I telephoned Malcolm X, and expressed my personal concern
for him. His voice sounded weary. He said that his ‘‘uppermost
interest’’ was that any money which might come due him in the
future would go directly to his new organization, or to his wife,
as the letter he had signed and mailed had specified. He told me,
‘I know I’ve got to get a will made for myself, I never did
because I never have had anything to will to anybody, but if I
don’t have one and something happened to me, there could be
a mess.’’ I expressed concern for him, and he told me that he
had a loaded rifle in his home, and ‘‘I can take care of myself.’’

The ‘‘Muslim Mosque, Inc.’’ to which Malcolm X had re-
ferred was a new organization which he had formed, which at
that time consisted of perhaps forty or fifty Muslims who had
left the leadership of Elijah Muhammad.

Through a close associate of Cassius Clay, whom Malcolm X
had finally suggested to me, my interview appointment was
arranged with the heavyweight champion, and I flew down to
New York City to do the interview for Playboy. Malcolm X was
‘“‘away briefly,’’ Sister Betty said on the phone—and she spoke
brusquely. I talked with one Black Muslim lady whom I had
known before she had joined, and who had been an admirer of
Malcolm X. She had elected to remain in the original fold, ‘‘but
Ili tell you, brother, what a lot in the mosque are saying, you
know, it’s like if you divorced your husband, you’d still like to
see him once in a while.’’ During my interviews with Cassius
Clay in his three-room suite at Harlem’s Theresa Hotel, inevi-
tably the questions got around to Clay’s Muslim membership,
then to a query about what had happened to his formerly very
close relationship with Malcolm X. Evenly, Clay said, ‘‘You
just don’t buck Mr. Muhammad and get away with it. I don’t
want to talk about him no more.”’

Elijah Muhammad at his headquarters in Chicago grew
‘emotionally affected’’ whenever the name of Malcolm X had

EPILOGUE 417

to be raised in his presence, one of the Muslims in Clay’s en-
tourage told me. Mr. Muhammad reportedly had said, *‘Brother
Malcolm got to be a big man. I made him big. I was about to
make him a great man.’’ The faithful Black Muslims predicted
that soon Malcolm X would be turned upon by the defectors
from Mosque Number 7 who had joined him: ‘‘They will feel
betrayed.’’ Said others, “‘A great chastisement of Allah will fall
upon a hypocrite.’” Mr. Muhammad reportedly had said at an-
other time, ‘‘Malcolm is destroying himself,’’ and that he had
no wish whatever to see Malcolm X die, that he ‘‘would rather
see him live and suffer his treachery.’’

The general feeling among Harlemites, non-Muslims, with
whom I talked was that Malcolm X had been powerful and in-
fluential enough a minister that eventually he would split the
mosque membership into two hostile camps, and that in New
York City at least, Elijah Muhammad’s unquestioned rule would
be ended.

Malcolm X returned. He said that he had been in Boston and
Philadelphia. He spent ample time with me, now during the day,
in Room 1936 in the Hotel Americana. His old total ease was
no longer with him. As if it was the most natural thing in the
world to do, at sudden intervals he would stride to the door;
pulling it open, he would look up and down the corridor, then
shut the door again. “‘If I’m alive when this book comes out, it
will be a miracle,’’ he said by way of explanation. ‘‘I’m not
Saying it distressingly—’’ He leaned forward and touched the
buff gold bedspread. ‘‘I’m saying it like I say that’s a bed-
spread.”’

For the first time he talked with me in some detail about what
had happened. He said that his statement about President Ken-
nedy’s assassination was not why he had been ousted from the
Muslims. ‘‘It wasn’t the reason at all. Nobody said anything
when I made stronger statements before.’’ The real reason, he
Said, was *‘jealousy in Chicago, and I had objected to the im-
morality of the man who professed to be more moral than any-
body.”’

Malcolm X said that he had increased the Nation of Islam
membership from about 400 when he had joined to around
40,000. **I don’t think there were more than 400 in the country
when I joined, I really don’t. They were mostly older people,

418 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

and many of them couldn’t even pronounce Mr. Muhammad’s
name, and he stayed mostly in the background.”’

Malcolm X worked hard not to show it, but he was upset.
‘‘There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action. Goe-
the,’’ he scribbled one day. He hinted about Cassius Clay a
couple of times, and when I responded only with anecdotes
about my interview with Clay, he finally asked what Clay had
said of him. I dug out the index card on which the question was
typed in advance and Clay’s response was beneath in longhand.
Malcolm X stared at the card, then out of the window, and he
got up and walked around; one of the few times I ever heard his
voice betray his hurt was when he said, “‘I felt like a blood big-
brother to him.’’ He paused. ‘‘I’m not against him now. He’s a
fine young man. Smart. He’s just let himself be used, led
astray.”’

And at another time there in the hotel room he came the
nearest to tears that I ever saw him, and also the only time I
ever heard him use, for his race, one word. He had been
talking about how hard he had worked building up the Mus-
lim organization in the early days when he was first moved
to New York City, when abruptly he exclaimed hoarsely,
‘‘We had the best organization the black man’s ever had—
niggers ruined it!’’

A few days later, however, he wrote in one of his memo books
this, which he let me read, ““Children have a lesson adults should
learn, to not be ashamed of failing, but to get up and try again.
Most of us adults are so afraid, so cautious, so ‘safe,’ and there-
fore so shrinking and rigid and afraid that it is why so many
humans fail. Most middle-aged adults have resigned themselves
to failure.’’

Telephone calls came frequently for Malcolm X when he was
in the room with me, or he would make calls; he would talk in
a covert, guarded manner, clearly not wishing me to be able to
follow the discussion. I took to going into the bathroom at these
times, and closing the door, emerging when the murmuring of
his voice had stopped—hoping that made him more comfortable.
Later, he would tell me that he was hearing from some Muslims
who were still ostensibly Elijah Muhammad’s followers. ‘‘I’m
a marked man,”’ he said one day, after such a call. ‘‘I’ve had
highly placed people tell me to be very careful every move I

EPILOGUE 419

make.’’ He thought about it. ‘‘Just as long as my family doesn’t
get hurt, I’m not frightened for myself.’’ I have the impression
that Malcolm X heard in advance that the Muslim organization
was going to sue to make him vacate the home he and his family
lived in.

I had become worried that Malcolm X, bitter, would want to
go back through the chapters in which he had told of his Black
Muslim days and re-edit them in some way. The day before I
left New York City to return upstate, I raised my concern to
Malcolm X. “‘I have thought about that,’’ he said. “‘There are
a lot of things I could say that passed through my mind at times
even then, things I saw and heard, but I threw them out of my
mind. I’m going to let it stand the way I’ve told it. I want the
book to be the way it was.”’

Then—March 26, 1964—a note came from Malcolm X:
‘‘There is a chance that I may make a quick trip to several very
important countries in Africa, including a pilgrimage to the
Muslim Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina, beginning about
April 13th. Keep this to yourself.’’

While abroad, Malcolm X wrote letters and postcards to
almost everyone he knew well. His letters now were signed
**E]-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz.”’

Then, in mid-May, Sister Betty telephoned me, her voice ju-
bilant: Malcolm X was returning. I flew to New York City. On
May 21, the phone rang in my hotel room and Sister Betty said,
‘‘Just a minute, please—,’’ then the deep voice said, ‘‘How are
you?”’

‘*Well! El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz! How are you?”’

He said, ‘‘Just a little bit tired.”’ He had arrived on a Pan-
American Airlines flight at 4:30. He was going to have a press
conference at seven P.M. at the Hotel Theresa. ‘‘I’ll pick you up
at 6:30 at 135th and Lenox, on the uptown side—all right?’’

When the blue Oldsmobile stopped, and I got in, El-Hajj
Malcolm, broadly beaming, wore a seersucker suit, the red hair
needed a barber’s attention, and he had grown a beard. Also in
the car was Sister Betty. It was the first time we had ever seen
each other after more than a year of talking several times a week
on the telephone. We smiled at each other. She wore dark
glasses, a blue maternity suit, and she was pregnant with what
would be her fourth child.

420 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

There must have been fifty still and television photographers
and reporters jockeying for position, up front, and the rest of
the Skyline Ballroom was filling with Negro followers of Mal-
colm X, or his well-wishers, and the curious. The room lit up
with flickering and flooding lights as he came in the door squir-
ing Sister Betty, holding her arm tenderly, and she was smiling
broadly in her pride that this man was her man. I recognized the
Times’ M. S. Handler and introduced myself; we warmly shook
hands and commandeered a little two-chair table. The reporters
in a thick semicircle before Malcolm X seated on the podium
fired questions at him, and he gave the impression that all of his
twelve years’ oratorical practice had prepared him for this new
image.

‘‘Do we correctly understand that you now do not think that
all whites are evil?’’

‘* True, sir! My trip to Mecca has opened my eyes. I no longer
subscribe to racism. I have adjusted my thinking to the point
where I believe that whites are human beings’’—a significant
pause—‘‘as long as this is borne out by their humane attitude
toward Negroes.”’

They picked at his ‘‘racist’’ image. ‘‘I’m not a racist. I’m not
condemning whites for being whites, but for their deeds. I con-
demn what whites collectively have done to our people collec-
tively.”’

He almost continually flashed about the room the ingratiating
boyish smile. He would pick at the new reddish beard. They
asked him about that, did he plan to keep it? He said he hadn’t
decided yet, he would have to see if he could get used to it or
not. Was he maneuvering to now join the major civil rights
leaders whom he had previously bitterly attacked? He answered
that one sideways: ‘‘I’ll explain it this way, sir. If some men
are in a car, driving with a destination in mind, and you know
they are going the wrong way, but they are convinced they are
going the right way, then you get into the car with them, and
ride with them, talking—and finally when they see they are on
the wrong road, not getting where they were intending, then you
tell them, and they will listen to you then, what road to take.’’
He had never been in better form, weighing, parrying, answer-
ing the questions.

The Times’ Handler, beside me, was taking notes and mut-

EPILOGUE 421

tering under his breath, ‘‘Incredible! Incredible!’’ I was thinking
the same thing. I was thinking, some of the time, that if a pebble
were dropped from the window behind Malcolm X, it would
have struck on a sidewalk eight floors below where years before
he had skulked, selling dope.

As I resumed writing upstate, periodic notes came from Mal-
colm X. ‘‘I hope the book is proceeding rapidly, for events
concerning my life happen so swiftly, much of what has already
been written can easily be outdated from month to month. In
life, nothing is permanent; not even life itself (smile). So I would
advise you to rush it on out as fast as possible.’’ Another note,
special delivery, had a tone of irritation with me: he had received
from the publisher a letter which indicated that he had received
a $2500 check when the book contract was signed, ‘‘and there-
fore I will be expected to pay personal income tax on this. As
you know, it was my repeated specification that this entire trans-
action was to be made at that time directly with and to the
Mosque. In fact, I have never seen that check to this very day.’”’

The matter was straightened out, and I sent Malcolm X some
rough chapters to read. I was appalled when they were soon
returned, red-inked in many places where he had told of his
almost father-and-son relationship with Elijah Muhammad.
Telephoning Malcolm X, I reminded him of his previous deci-
sion, and I stressed that if those chapters contained such tele-
graphing to readers of what would lie ahead, then the book
would automatically be robbed of some of its building suspense
and drama. Malcolm X said, gruffly, ‘“Whose book is this?’’ I
told him ‘‘yours, of course,’’ and that I only made the objection
in my position as a writer. He said that he would have to think
about it. I was heart-sick at the prospect that he might want to
re-edit the entire book into a polemic against Elijah Muhammad.
But late that night, Malcolm X telephoned. ‘‘I’m sorry. You’re
right. I was upset about something. Forget what I wanted
changed, let what you already had stand.’’ I never again gave
him chapters to review unless I was with him. Several times I
would covertly watch him frown and wince as he read, but he
never again asked for any change in what he had originally said.
And the only thing that he ever indicated that he wished had
been different in his life came when he was reading the chapter
‘‘Laura.’’ He said, “‘That was a smart girl, a good girl. She

422 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

tried her best to make something out of me, and look what I
started her into—dope and prostitution. I wrecked that girl.”’

Malcolm X was busy, busy, busy; he could not visit my hotel
room often, and when he did, it shortly would get the feeling of
Grand Central Station. It seemed that when the telephone was
not ringing for him, he was calling someone else, consulting
the jotted numbers in his ever-ready memorandum book. Now
he had begun to talk a great deal with various people from the
Middle East or Africa who were in New York. Some of these
came to see him at the hotel room. At first, I would sit by the
window engrossed in reading while they talked by the room’s
door in low tones. He was very apologetic when this occurred,
and I told him I felt no sensitivity about it; then, afterwards, I
would generally step out into the hallway, or perhaps take the
elevator down to the lobby, then watch the elevators until I saw
the visitor leave. One day, I remember, the phone had rung
steadily with such callers as C.B.S., A.B.C., N.B.C., every
New York City paper, the London Daily Express, and numerous
individuals—he and I had gotten no work at all accomplished;
then a television camera crew arrived and filled the room to tape
an interview with Malcolm X by A.B.C.’s commentator Bill
Beutel. As the crew was setting up its floodlights on tripods, a
Dayton, Ohio, radio station called, wishing to interview Mal-
colm X by telephone. He asked me to ask them to call him the
following day at his sister Ella’s home in Boston. Then the
Ghana Ministry of Information called. I turned with a note to
Malcolm X to whom the commentator Beutel had just said, ‘‘I
won't take much of your time, I just have a few probably stupid
questions.’’ Glancing at my note, Malcolm X said to Beutel,
*“*Only the unasked question is stupid,’’ and then to me, *‘Tell
them I'll call them back, please.’’ Then just as the television
cameras began rolling, with Beutel and Malcolm X talking, the
telephone rang again and it was Life magazine reporter Marc
Crawford to whom I whispered what was happening. Crawford,
undaunted, asked if the open receiver could be placed where he
could hear the interview, and I complied, relieved that it was
one way to let the interview proceed without intermption.

The manuscript copy which Malcolm X was given to review
was in better shape now, and he pored through page by page,

EPILOGUE 423

intently, and now and then his head would raise with some com-
ment. ‘‘You know,’’ he said once, ‘‘why I have been able to
have some effect is because I make a study of the weaknesses
of this country and because the more the white man yelps, the
more I know J have struck a nerve.’’ Another time, he put down
upon the bed the manuscript he was reading, and he got up from
his chair and walked back and forth, stroking his chin, then he
looked at me. ‘‘You know this place here in this chapter where
I told you how IJ put the pistol up to my head and kept pulling
the trigger and scared them so when I was starting the burglary
ring—well,’’ he paused, “‘I don’t know if I ought to tell you this
or not, but I want to tell the truth.’ He eyed me, speculatively.
‘‘T palmed the bullet.’” We laughed together. I said, ‘“‘Okay,
give that page here, I’ll fix it.’ Then he considered, ‘“‘No, leave
it that way. Too many people would be so quick to say that’s
what I’m doing today, bluffing.’’

Again when reading about the period when he had discovered
the prison library, Malcolm X’s head jerked up. ‘“Boy! I never
will forget that old aardvark!’’ The next evening, he came into
the room and told me that he had been to the Museum of Natural
History and learned something about the aardvark. ‘‘Now, aard-
vark actually means ‘earth hog.’ That’s a good example of root
words, as I was telling you. When you study the science of
philology, you learn the laws governing how a consonant can
lose its shape, but it keeps its identity from language to lan-
guage.’” What astonished me here was that I knew that on that
day, Malcolm X’s schedule had been crushing, involving both
a television and radio appearance and a live speech, yet he had
gone to find out something about the aardvark.

Before long, Malcolm X called a press conference, and an-
nounced, ‘“My new Organization of Afro-American Unity is a
non-religious and non-sectarian group organized to unite Afro-
Americans for a constructive program toward attainment of hu-
man rights.’’ The new OAAU’s tone appeared to be one of
militant black nationalism. He said to the questions of various
reporters in subsequent interviews that the OAAU would seek
to convert the Negro population from non-violence to active
self-defense against white supremacists across America. On the
subject of politics he offered an enigma, ‘“Whether you use bul-
lets or ballots, you’ve got to aim well; don’t strike at the puppet,

424 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

strike at the puppeteer.’’ Did he envision any special area of
activity? ‘‘I’m going to join in the fight wherever Negroes ask
for my help.’’ What about alliance with other Negro organiza-
tions? He said that he would consider forming some united front
with certain selected Negro leaders. He conceded under ques-
tioning that the N.A.A.C.P. was “‘doing some good.’’ Could
any whites join his OAAU? “‘If John Brown were alive, maybe
him.’’ And he answered his critics with such statements as that
he would send ‘‘armed guerrillas’’ into Mississippi. ‘‘I am dead
serious. We will send them not only to Mississippi, but to any
place where black people’s lives are threatened by white bigots.
As far as I am concerned, Mississippi is anywhere south of the
Canadian border.’’ At another time, when Evelyn Cunningham
of the Pittsburgh Courier asked Malcolm X in a kidding way,
‘‘Say something startling for my column,”’ he told her, “‘Any-
one who wants to follow me and my movement has got to be
ready to go to jail, to the hospital, and to the cemetery before
he can be truly free.’’ Evelyn Cunningham, printing the item,
commented, ‘‘He smiled and chuckled, but he was in dead ear-
nest.”’

His fourth child, yet another daughter, was born and he and
Sister Betty named the baby Gamilah Lumumbah. A young
waitress named Helen Lanier, at Harlem’s Twenty Two Club
where Malcolm X now often asked people to meet him, gave
him a layette for the new baby. He was very deeply touched by
the gesture. ‘“Why, I hardly know that girl!”’

He was clearly irked when a New York Times poll among
New York City Negroes reflected that three-fourths had named
Dr. Martin Luther King as ‘‘doing the best work for Negroes,”’
and another one-fifth had voted for the N.A.A.C.P.’s Roy Wil-
kins, while only six per cent had voted for Malcolm X.
‘*Brother,’’ he said to me, ‘‘do you realize that some of history’s
greatest leaders never were recognized until they were safely in
the ground!’’

One morning in mid-summer 1964, Malcolm X telephoned
me and said that he would be leaving ‘‘within the next two or
three days’’ for a planned six weeks abroad. I heard from him
first in Cairo, about as the predicted ‘‘long, hot summer’’ began
in earnest, with riots and other uprisings of Negroes occurring
in surburban Philadelphia, in Rochester, in Brooklyn, in Har-

EPILOGUE 425

lem, and other cities. The New York Times reported that a meet-
ing of Negro intellectuals had agreed that Dr. Martin Luther
King could secure the allegiance of the middle and upper classes
of Negroes, but Malcolm X alone could secure the allegiance of
Negroes at the bottom. “‘The Negroes respect Dr. King and
Malcolm X because they sense in these men absolute integrity
and know they will never sell them out. Malcolm X cannot be
corrupted and the Negroes know this and therefore respect him.
They also know that he comes from the lower depths, as they
do, and regard him as one of their own. Malcolm X is going to
play a formidable role, because the racial struggle has now
shifted to the urban North. . . if Dr. King is convinced that he
has sacrificed ten years of brilliant leadership, he will be forced
to revise his concepts. There is only one direction in which he
can move, and that is in the direction of Malcolm X.’’ I sent a
clipping of that story to Malcolm X in Cairo.

In Washington, D.C. and New York City, at least, powerful
Civic, private, and governmental agencies and individuals were
keenly interested in what Malcolm X was saying abroad, and
were speculating upon what would he say, and possibly do,
when he returned to America. In upstate New York, I received
a telephone call from a close friend who said he had been asked
to ask me if I would come to New York City on an appointed
day to meet with ‘‘a very high government official’’ who was
interested in Malcolm X. I did fly down to the city. My friend
accompanied me to the offices of a large private foundation well
known for its activities and donations in the civil-rights area. I
met the foundation’s president and he introduced me to the
Justice Department Civil Rights Section head, Burke Marshall.
Marshall was chiefly interested in Malcolm X’s finances, par-
ticularly how his extensive traveling since his Black Muslim
ouster had been paid for. I told him that to the best of my knowl-
edge the several payments from the publisher had financed Mal-
colm X, along with fees he received for some speeches, and
possible donations that his organization received, and that Mal-
colm X had told me of borrowing money from his Sister Ella
for the current trip, and that recently the Saturday Evening Post
had bought the condensation rights of the book for a substantial
sum that was soon to be received. Marshall listened quietly,
intently, and asked a few questions concerning other aspects of

426 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Malcolm X’s life, then thanked me. I wrote to Malcolm X in
Cairo that night about the interview. He never mentioned it.

The Saturday Evening Post flew photographer John Launois
to Cairo to locate Malcolm X and photograph him in color. The
magazine’s September 12 issue appeared, and I sent a copy by
airmail to Malcolm X. Within a few days, I received a stinging
note, expressing his anger at the magazine’s editorial regarding
his life story. (The editorial’s opening sentence read, ‘‘If Mal-
colm X were not a Negro, his autobiography would be little
more than a journal of abnormal psychology, the story of a
burglar, dope pusher, addict and jailbird—with a family history
of insanity—who acquires messianic delusions and sets forth to
preach an upside-down religion of ‘brotherly’ hatred.’’) I wrote
to Malcolm X that he could not fairly hold me responsible for
what the magazine had written in a separate editorial opinion.
He wrote an apology, ‘‘but the greatest care must be exercised
in the future.’’

His return from Africa was even more auspicious than when
he had returned from the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca. A large
group of Negroes, his followers and well-wishers, kept gather-
ing in the Overseas Arrival Building at Kennedy Airport. When
I entered, white men with cameras were positioned on the sec-
ond leve!, taking pictures of all the Negroes who entered, and
almost as obvious were Negro plain-clothesmen moving about.
Malcolm’s greeters had draped across the glass overlooking the
U.S. Customs Inspection line some large cloth banners on which
were painted in bold letters, ‘“Welcome Home, Malcolm.”’

He came in sight, stepping into one of the Customs Inspection
lines; he heard the cheering and he looked up, smiling his plea-
sure.

Malcolm X wanted to ‘‘huddle’’ with me to fill me in on
details from his trip that he wanted in the book. He said that he
was giving me only the highlights, because he felt that his care-
fully kept diary might be tumed into another book. We had
intensive sessions in my hotel room, where he read what he
selected from the diary, and I took notes. ‘“What I want to stress
is that I was trying to internationalize our problem,”’ he said to
me, “‘to make the Africans feel their kinship with us Afro-
Americans. I made them think about it, that they are our blood

EPILOGUE 427

brothers, and we all came from the same foreparents. That’s
why the Africans loved me, the same way the Asians loved me
because I was religious.”’

Within a few days, he had no more time to see me. He would
call and apologize; he was beset by a host of problems, some of
which he mentioned, and some of which I heard from other
people. Most immediately, there was discontent within his or-
ganization, the OAAU. His having stayed away almost three
times as long as he had said he would be gone had sorely tested
the morale of even his key members, and there was a general
feeling that his interest was insufficient to expect his followers’
interest to stay high. I heard from one member that ‘‘a growing
disillusion’’ could be sensed throughout the organization.

In Harlem at large, in the bars and restaurants, on the street
comers and stoops, there could be heard more blunt criticism of
Malcolm X than ever before in his career. There were, variously
expressed, two primary complaints. One was that actually Mal-
colm X only talked, but other civil-rights organizations were
doing. ‘‘All he’s ever done was talk, CORE and SNCC and
some of them people of Dr. King’s are out getting beat over the
head.’’ The second major complaint was that Malcolm X was
himself too confused to be seriously followed any longer. ‘‘He
doesn’t know what he believes in. No sooner do you hear one
thing than he’s switched to something else.’’ The two com-
plaints were not helping the old firebrand Malcolm X image any,
nor were they generating the local public interest that was badly
needed by his small, young OAAU.

A court had made it clear that Malcolm X and his family
would have to vacate the Elmhurst house for its return to the
adjudged legal owners, Elijah Muhammad’s Nation of Islam.
And other immediate prcblems which Malcolm X faced in-
cluded finances. Among his other expenses, a wife and four
daughters had to be supported, along with at least one full-time
OAAU official. Upon his retum from Africa, our agent for the
book had delivered to me for Malcolm X a check for a sizable
sum; soon afterward Malcolm X told me, laughing wryly, ‘‘It’s
evaporated. I don’t know where!”’

Malcolm X plunged into a welter of activities. He wrote and
telephoned dozens of acceptances to invitations to speak, pre-
dominantly at colleges and universities—both to expound his

428 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

philosophies and to earn the $150-$300 honorariums above
traveling expenses. When he was in New York City, he spent
all the time he could in his OAAU’s sparsely furnished office
on the mezzanine floor of the Hotel Theresa, trying to do some-
thing about the OAAU’s knotty problems. ‘‘I’m not exposing
our size in numbers,’’ he evaded the query of one reporter.
‘*You know, the strongest part of a tree is the root, and if you
expose the root, the tree dies. Why, we have many ‘invisible’
members, of all types. Unlike other leaders, I’ve practiced the
flexibility to put myself into contact with every kind of Negro
in the country.”’

Even at mealtimes, at his favorite Twenty Two Club, or else-
where in Harlem, he could scarcely eat for the people who came
up asking for appointments to discuss with him topics ranging
from personal problems to his opinions on international issues.
It seemed not in him to say ‘‘No’’ to such requests. And aides
of his, volunteering their time, as often as not had to wait lengthy
periods to get his ear for matters important to the OAAU, or to
himself; often, even then, he most uncharacteristically showed
an impatience with their questions or their suggestions, and they
chafed visibly. And at least once weekly, generally on Sunday
evenings, he would address as many Negroes as word of mouth
and mimeographed advertising could draw to hear him in Har-
lem’s Audubon Ballroom on West 166th Street between Broad-
way and St. Nicholas Avenue, near New York City’s famous
Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center.

Malcolm X for some reason suddenly began to deliver a spate
of attacks against Elijah Muhammad, making more bitter ac-
cusations of *‘religious fakery’’ and ‘‘immorality’’ than he ever
had. Very possibly, Malcolm X had grown increasingly in-
censed by the imminence of the court’s deadline for him to have
to move his wife and four little daughters from the comfortable
home in which they had lived for years in Elmhurst. And Sister
Betty was again pregnant. ‘‘A home is really the only thing I’ve
ever provided Betty since we’ve been married,’’ he had told me,
discussing the court’s order, ‘‘and they want to take that away.
Man, I can’t keep on putting her through changes, all she’s put
up with—man, I’ve got to love this woman!”’

A rash of death threats were anonymously telephoned to the
police, to various newspapers, to the OAAU office, and to the

EPILOGUE 429

family’s home in Elmhurst. When he went to court again, fight-
ing to keep the house, he was guarded by a phalanx of eight
OAAU men, twenty uniformed policemen, and twelve plain-
clothes detectives. The court’s decision was that the order to
vacate would not be altered. When Malcolm X reached home
in Long Island, one of his followers, telephoning him there,
got, instead, a telephone company operator who said that the
OL 1-6320 number was ‘‘disconnected.’’ A carload of his OAAU
followers, racing to Long Island, found Malcolm X and his
family perfectly safe. Inquiry of the telephone company re-
vealed that a ‘‘Mrs. Small’’ had called and requested that the
service for that number be disconnected, ‘‘for vacation.’’ The
OAAU followers drove back to Harlem. There was an ensuing
confrontation between them and followers of Elijah Muhammad
in front of the Black Muslim restaurant at 116th Street and Lenox
Avenue. The incident wound up with policemen who rushed to
the scene finding two guns in the OAAU car, and the six OAAU
men were arrested.

Malcolm X had a date to speak in Boston, but he was too
busy to go, and he sent an OAAU assistant who spoke instead.
The car returning him to the Boston Airport was blocked at the
East Boston Tunnel by another car. Reportedly, men with knives
rushed out of the blockade car, but the Malcolm X forces showed
a shotgun, and the attackers dispersed.

Malcolm X steadily accused the Black Muslims as the source
of the various attacks and threats. ‘‘There is no group in the
United States more able to carry out this threat than the Black
Muslims,’’ he said. ‘‘I know, because I taught them myself.’’
Asked why he had attacked the Black Muslims and Elyah Mu-
hammad when things had seemed to be cooled down, he said,
‘‘T would not have revealed any of this if they had left me alone.”’
He let himself be photographed in his home holding an auto-
matic carbine nfle with a full double clip of ammunition that he
said he kept ready for action against any possible assassination
efforts. ‘‘I have taught my wife to use it, and instructed her to
fire on anyone, white, black, or yellow, who tries to force his
way inside.’’

I went to New York City in December for Malcolm X’s read-
ing of final additions to the manuscript, to include the latest
developments. He was further than I had ever seen him from his

430 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

old assured self, it seemed to me. He kept saying that the press
was making light of his statements about the threats on his life.
‘‘They act like I’m jiving!’’ He brought up again the Saturday
Evening Post editorial. ‘“You can’t trust the publishing people,
I don’t care what they tell you.’’ The agent for the book sent to
my hotel a contract dealing with foreign publication rights which
needed Malcolm X’s and my signature. I signed it as he ob-
served and handed the pen to him. He looked suspiciously at
the contract, and said, ‘‘I had better show this thing to my law-
yer,’” and put the contract in his inside coat pocket. Driving in
Harlem about an hour later, he suddenly stopped the car across
the street from the 135th Street Y.M.C.A. Building. Withdraw-
ing the contract, he signed it, and thrust it to me. ‘‘I’ll trust
you,’’ he said, and drove on.

With Christmas approaching, upon an impulse I bought for
Malcolm X’s two oldest daughters two large dolls, with painted
brown complexions, the kind of dolls that would ‘‘walk’’ when
held by the left hand. When Malcolm X next came to my room
in the Hotel Wellington, I said, “‘I’ve gotten something for you
to take to Attallah and Qubilah for Christmas gifts,’’ and I
‘‘walked’’ out the dolls. Amazement, then a wide grin spread
over his face. ‘“Well, what do you know about that? Well, how
about that!’’ He bent to examine the dolls. His expression
showed how touched he was. *“‘You know,’’ he said after a
while, ‘‘this isn’t something I’m proud to say, but I don’t think
I’ve ever bought one gift for my children. Everything they play
with, either Betty got it for them, or somebody gave it to them,
never me. That’s not good, I know it. I’ve always been too

busy.”’

In early January, I flew from upstate New York to Kennedy
Airport where I telephoned Malcolm X at home and told him
that I was waiting for another plane to Kansas City to witness
the swearing-in of my younger brother George who had recently
been elected a Kansas State Senator. ‘“Tell your brother for me
to remember us in the alley,’’ Malcolm X said. ‘‘Tell him that
he and all of the other moderate Negroes who are getting some-
where need to always remember that it was us extremists who
made it possible.’’ He said that when I was ready to leave Kan-
sas, to telephone him saying when I would arrive back in New

EPILOGUE 43]

York, and if he could we could get together. I did this, and he
met me at Kennedy Airport. He had only a little while, he was
so pressed, he said; he had to leave that afternoon himself for a
speaking engagement which had come up. So I made reserva-
tions for the next flight back upstate, then we went outside and
sat and talked in his car in a parking lot. He talked about the
pressures on him everywhere he turned, and about the frustra-
tions, among them that no one wanted to accept anything relat-
ing to him except “‘my old ‘hate’ and ‘violence’ image.’’ He
said ‘‘the so-called moderate’”’ civil rights organizations avoided
him as ‘‘too militant’’ and the “‘so-called militants’’ avoided him
as “‘too moderate.’’ ‘‘They won’t let me turn the comer!’’ he
once exclaimed, “‘I’m caught in a trap!’

In a happier area, we talked about the coming baby. We
laughed about the four girls in a row already. “This one will be
the boy,’’ he said. He beamed, ‘‘If not, the next one!’’ When I
said it was close to time for my plane to leave, he said he had
to be getting on, too. I said, ““Give my best to Sister Betty,’’ he
said that he would, we shook hands and I got outside and stood
as he backed the blue Oldsmobile from its parking space. I called
out ‘‘See you!’’ and we waved as he started driving away. There
was no way to know that it was the last time I would see him
alive.

On January 19, Malcolm X appeared on the Pierre Berton
television show in Canada and said, in response to a question
about integration and intermarriage:

‘*T believe in recognizing every human being as a human be-
ing—neither white, black, brown, or red; and when you are
dealing with humanity as a family there’s no question of inte-
gration or intermarriage. It’s just one human being marry-
ing another human being or one human being living around and
with another human being. I may say, though, that I don’t think it
should ever be put upon a black man, I don’t think the burden
to defend any position should ever be put upon the black man,
because it is the white man collectively who has shown that he
is hostile toward integration and toward intermarriage and to-
ward these other strides toward oneness. So as a black man and
especially as a black American, any stand that I formerly took,
I don’t think that I would have to defend it because it’s still a

432 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

reaction to the society, and it’s a reaction that was produced by
the society; and I think that it is the society that produced this
that should be attacked, not the reaction that develops among
the people who are the victims of that negative society.’’

From this, it would be fair to say that one month before his
death, Malcolm had revised his views on intermarriage to the
point where he regarded it as simply a personal matter.

On the 28th of January, Malcolm X was on TWA’s Flight
No. 9 from New York that landed at about three P.M. in Los
Angeles. A special police intelligence squad saw Malcolm X
greeted by two close friends, Edward Bradley and Allen Jamal,
who drove him to the Statler-Hilton Hotel where Malcolm X
checked into Room 1129. Said Bradley, ‘‘As we entered the
lobby, six men came in right after us. I recognized them as Black
Muslims.’’ When Malcolm X returned downstairs to the lobby,
he ‘‘practically bumped into the Muslim entourage. The Mus-
lims were stunned. Malcolm’s face froze, but he never broke
his gait. Then, we knew we were facing trouble.’’ Malcolm X’s
friends drove him to pick up ‘‘two former secretaries of Elijah
Muhammad, who (had) filed paternity suits against him,’’ and
they went to the office of the colorful Los Angeles attorney
Gladys Root. Mrs. Root said that Malcolm X made accusations
about Elijah Muhammad’s conduct with various former secre-
taries.

After dinner, Malcolm X’s two friends drove him back to the
hotel. ‘Black Muslims were all over the place,’’ Bradley re-
lated. ‘‘Some were in cars and others stood around near the
hotel. They had the hotel completely surrounded. Malcolm sized
up the situation and jumped out of the car. He warmed me to
watch out and ran into the lobby. He went to his room and
remained there for the rest of his stay in Los Angeles.’’

The car in which Malcolm X left the hotel, bound for the
airport, was followed, said Bradley. ‘‘Hardly had we got on the
Freeway when we saw two carloads of Black Muslims following
us. The cars started to pull alongside. Malcolm picked up my
walking cane and stuck it out of a back window as if it were a
rifle. The two cars fell behind. We picked up speed, pulled off
the airport ramp, and roared up to the front of the terminal. The
police were waiting and Malcolm was escorted to the plane

EPILOGUE 433

through an underground passageway. Then I saw Malcolm to
the plane.’’

Chicago police were waiting when the plane landed at O’ Hare
Airport that night at eight o’clock. Driven to the Bristol Hotel,
Malcolm X checked in, and the adjoining suite was taken by
members of the police force who would keep him under steady
guard for the next three days in Chicago. Malcolm X testified
at the office of the Attorney General of the State of Illinois which
had been investigating the Nation of Islam. Another day he ap-
peared on the television program of Irv Kupcinet; he described
attempts that had been made to kill him. He said he had on his
desk a letter naming the persons assigned to kill him. When
police returned Malcolm X to his hotel ‘‘at least 15 grim-faced
Negroes (were) loitering nearby.’’ Whispered Malcolm X to
Detective Sergeant Edward McClellan, ‘‘Those are all Black
Muslims. At least two of them I recognize as being from New
York. Elijah seems to know every move I make.’’ Later, in his
room, he told the detective, ‘‘It’s only going to be a matter of
time before they catch up with me. I know too much about the
Muslims. But their threats are not going to stop me from what I
am determined to do.’’ After that night spent in the hotel, Mal-
colm X was police-escorted back to O’ Hare where he caught a
plane to New York City’s Kennedy Airport.

Right away, he was served with a court order of eviction from
the Elmhurst home. He telephoned me upstate. His voice was
strained. He told me that he had filed an appeal to the court
order, that on the next day he was going to Alabama, and thence
to England and France for scheduled speeches, and soon after
retuming he would go to Jackson, Mississippi, to address the
Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party, on February 19. Then
he said—the first time he had ever voiced to me such an admis-
sion—‘*Haley, my nerves are shot, my brain’s tired.’’ He said
that upon his return from Mississippi, he would like to come
and spend two or three days in the town where I was, and read
the book’s manuscript again. ‘‘You say it’s a quiet town. Just a
couple of days of peace and quiet, that’s what I need.’’ I said
that he knew he was welcome, but there was no need for him to
tax himself reading through the long book again, as it had only
a few very minor editing changes since he had only recently
read it. ‘‘I just want to read it one more time,”’ he said, ‘‘because

434 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

I don’t expect to read it in finished form.’’ So we made a ten-
tative agreement that the day after his projected retum from
Mississippi, he would fly upstate to visit for a weekend with
me. The projected date was the Saturday and Sunday of Feb-
ruary 20-21.

Jet magazine reported Malcolm X’s trip to Selma, Alabama,
on the invitation of two members of the Student Nonviolent
Coordinating Committee. Dr. Martin Luther King was in a
Selma jail when Malcolm X’s arrival sent officials of Dr. King’s
Southern Christian Leadership Conference ‘‘into a tailspin.”’
Quickly, the SCLC’s Executive Director Reverend Andrew
Young and Reverend James Bevel met with Malcolm X, urging
him not to incite any incidents and cautioning him that his pres-
ence could cause violence. ‘‘He listened with a smile,’’ said
Miss Faye Bellamy, secretary of the SNCC, who accompanied
Malcolm X to a Negro church where he would address a mass
meeting. ‘‘Remember this: nobody puts words in my mouth,”’
he told Miss Bellamy. He told her that ‘‘in about two weeks’’
he planned to start Southern recruiting for his Harlem-based
OAAU. At the church where he would speak, Malcolm X was
seated on the platform next to Mrs. Martin Luther King, to
whom he leaned and whispered that he was ‘‘trying to help,’’
she told Jet. “‘He said he wanted to present an alternative; that
it might be easier for whites to accept Martin’s proposals after
hearing him (Malcolm X). I didn’t understand him at first,’’ said
Mrs. King. ‘“‘He seemed rather anxious to let Martin know he
was not causing trouble or making it difficult, but that he was
trying to make it easier. . . . Later, in the hallway, he reiterated
this. He seemed sincere... .”’

Addressing the mass meeting Malcolm X reportedly shouted:
‘*I don’t advocate violence, but if a man steps on my toes, I’ll
step on his.’’ . . . ‘“Whites better be glad Martin Luther King
is rallying the people because other forces are waiting to take
over if he fails.”’

Returned to New York City, Malcolm X soon flew to France.
He was scheduled to speak before a Congress of African Stu-
dents. But he was formally advised that he would not be per-
mitted to speak and, moreover, that he could consider himself
officially barred forever from France as ‘‘an undesirable per-
son.’’ He was asked to leave—and he did, fuming with indig-

EPILOGUE 435

nation. He flew on to London, and reporters of the British
Broadcasting Corporation took him on an interviewing tour in
Smethwick, a town near Birmingham with a large colored pop-
ulation. Numerous residents raised a storm of criticism that the
B.B.C. was a party to a “‘fanning of racism’’ in the already
tension-filled community. On this visit, he spoke also at the
London School of Economics.

Malcolm X returned to New York City on Saturday, February
13th. He was asleep with his family when at about a quarter of
three the following Sunday morning, a terrifying blast awakened
them. Sister Betty would tell me later that Malcolm X, barking
commands and snatching up screaming, frightened children, got
the family safely out of the back door into the yard. Someone
had thrown flaming Molotov cocktail gasoline bombs through
the front picture window. It took the fire department an hour to
extinguish the flames. Half the house was destroyed. Malcolm X
had no fire insurance.

Pregnant, distraught Sister Betty and the four little daughters
went to the home of close friends. Malcolm X steeled himself
to catch a plane as scheduled that moming to speak in Detroit.
He wore an open-necked sweater shirt under his suit. Immedi-
ately afterward, he flew back to New York. Monday morning,
amid a flurry of emergency re-housing plans for his family,
Malcolm X was outraged when he learmed that Elijah Muham-
mad’s New York Mosque Number 7 Minister James X had told
the press that Malcolm X himself had fire-bombed the home ‘‘to
get publicity.’’

Monday night, Malcolm X spoke to an audience in the fa-
miliar Audubon Ballroom. If he had possessed the steel nerves
not to become rattled in public before, now he was: “‘I’ve
reached the end of my rope!’’ he shouted to the audience of five
hundred. ‘“‘I wouldn’t care for myself if they would not harm
my family!’ He declared flatly, ‘“My house was bombed by the
Muslims!’ And he hinted at revenge. ‘‘There are hunters; there
are also those who hunt the hunters!”’

Tuesday, February 16th, Malcolm X telephoned me. He spoke
very briefly, saying that the complications following the bomb-
ing of his home had thrown his plans so awry that he would be
unable to visit me upstate on the weekend as he had said he
would. He said he had also had to cancel his planned trip to

436 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Jackson, Mississippi, which he was going to try and make later.
He said he had to hurry to an appointment, and hung up. I would
read later where also on that day, he told a close associate, “‘I
have been marked for death in the next five days. I have the
names of five Black Muslims who have been chosen to kill me.
I will announce them at the meeting.’ And Malcolm X told a
friend that he was going to apply to the Police Department for
a permit to carry a pistol. ‘‘I don’t know whether they will let
me have one or not, as I served time in prison.”’

On Thursday he told a reporter, in an interview which did not
appear until after his death: ‘‘I’m man enough to tell you that I
can’t put my finger on exactly what my philosophy is now, but
I’m flexible.”’

The blackboard in the OAAU office counseled members and
visitors that ‘‘Bro. Malcolm Speaks Thurs. Feb. 18, WINS Sta-
tion, 10:30 p.m.’’ Earlier Thursday, Malcolm X discussed lo-
cating another home with a real estate dealer. On Friday, he had
an appointment with Gordon Parks, the Life magazine
photographer-author whom he had long admired and respected.
‘*He appeared calm and somewhat resplendent with his goatee
and astrakhan hat,’’ Parks would report later in Life. ‘‘Much of
the old hostility and bitterness seemed to have left him, but the
fire and confidence were still there.”’ Malcolm X, speaking of
the old Mosque Number 7 days, said, ““That was a bad scene,
brother. The sickness and madness of those days—I’m glad to
be free of them. It’s a time for martyrs now. And if I’m to be
one, it will be in the cause of brotherhood. That’s the only thing
that can save this country. I’ve learned it the hard way—but I’ve
learned it... .”’

Parks asked Malcolm X if it was really true that killers were
after him. ‘‘It’s as true as we are standing here,’’ Malcolm X
said. ‘“They’ve tried it twice in the last two weeks.’’ Parks asked
him about police protection, and Malcolm X laughed, ‘‘Brother,
nobody can protect you from a Muslim but a Muslim—or some-
one trained in Muslim tactics. I know. I invented many of those
tactics.’’

Recalling the incident of the young white college girl who had
come to the Black Muslim restaurant and asked ‘‘What can I
do?’’ and he told her “‘Nothing,’’ and she left in tears, Mal-
colm X told Gordon Parks, ‘‘Well, I’ve lived to regret that in-

EPILOGUE 437

cident. In many parts of the African continent I saw white
students helping black people. Something like this kills a lot of
argument. I did many things as a Muslim that I’m sorry for now.
I was a zombie then—like all Muslims—I was hypnotized,
pointed in a certain direction and told to march. Well, I guess a
man’s entitled to make a fool of himself if he’s ready to pay the
cost. It cost me twelve years.’”’

Saturday morning, he drove Sister Betty to see a real estate
man. The house that the man then showed them that Malcolm X
particularly liked, in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood
also on Long Island, required a $3000 down payment. Sister
Betty indicated her approval, too, and Malcolm X told the real
estate man he thought they would take it. Driving Sister Betty
back to the friends’ home where she was staying with the chil-
dren, they estimated that it would cost them about another $1000
to make the move. He stayed until mid-afternoon with Sister
Betty at the friends’ home, talking. He told her that he realized
that she had been under protracted great strain, and that he was
sorry about it. When he got his hat to leave, to drive into Man-
hattan, standing in the hallway, he told Sister Betty, ‘‘We’ll all
be together. I want my family with me. Families shouldn’t be
separated. I’ll never make another long trip without you. We’l
get somebody to keep the children. I’ll never leave you so long
again.”’

‘*T couldn’t help but just break out grinning,’’ Sister Betty
would later tell me.

She figured that he must have stopped at a nearby drugstore
to use the telephone booth when I later told her that Malcolm X
had telephoned me upstate at about 3:30 that afternoon.

For the first time in nearly two years, I did not recognize
immediately that the voice on the other end of the phone be-
longed to Malcolm X. He sounded as if he had a heavy, deep
cold. He told me that in the middle of the night he and some
friends had helped a moving company’s men take out of the
other house all of the family’s furniture and other belongings
salvageable after the fire-bombing—before a sheriff’s eviction
party would set the things out on the sidewalk. ‘‘Betty and I
have been looking at a house we want to buy’’—he tried a
chuckle—‘“*you know nobody’s going to rent, not to me, these
days!’’ He said, ‘‘AJl I’ve got is about $150,’’ and that he needed

438 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

a $3000 down-payment plus $1000 moving costs; he asked if I
thought the publisher would advance him $4000 against the pro-
jected profits from the book. I said that when our agent’s offices
opened on Monday moming, I would telephone and I knew that he
would query the publisher to see if it couldn’t be arranged, then
Monday night I would call him back and let him know.

He said that he and Sister Betty had decided that although
they were going to pay for the house, to avoid possible trouble
they had gotten the agreement of his sister Ella who lived in
Boston to let the house be bought in her name. He said that he
still owed $1500 to his sister Ella which she had loaned him to
make one tnp abroad. Eventually they would change the house’s
title into Sister Betty’s name, he said, or maybe into the name
of their oldest daughter, Attallah.

He digressed on the dangers he faced. ‘‘But, you know, I’m
going to tell you something, brother—the more I keep thinking
about this thing, the things that have been happening lately, I’m
not all that sure it’s the Muslims. I know what they can do, and
what they can’t, and they can’t do some of the stuff recently
going on. Now, I’m going to tell you, the more I keep thinking
about what happened to me in France, I think I’m going to quit
saying it’s the Muslims.”’

Then—it seemed to me such an odd, abrupt change of subject:
‘You know, I’m glad I’ve been the first to establish official ties
between Afro-Americans and our blood brothers in Africa.”’
And saying good-bye, he hung up.

After that telephone call, Malcolm X drove on into Manhattan
and to the New York Hilton Hotel between 53rd and 54th Streets
at Rockefeller Center. He checked the blue Oldsmobile into the
hotel garage and then, in the lobby, he checked himself in and
was assigned a twelfth-floor room, to which a bellman accom-
panied him.

Soon some Negro men entered the giant hotel’s busy lobby.
They began asking various bellmen what room Malcolm X was
in. The bellmen, of course, never would answer that question
conceming any guest—and considering that it was Malcolm X
whom practically everyone who read New York City newspa-
pers knew was receiving constant death threats, the bellmen
quickly notified the hotel’s security chief. From then until Mal-
colm X checked out the next day, extra security vigilance was

EPILOGUE 439

continuously maintained on the twelfth floor. During that time,
Malcolm X left the room only once, to have dinner in the hotel’s
lobby-level, dimly lit Bourbon Room.

Sunday morning at nine o’clock, Sister Betty in Long Island
was surprised when her husband telephoned her and asked if she
felt it would be too much trouble for her to get all of the four
children dressed and bring them to the two o’clock meeting that
afternoon at the Audubon Ballroom in Harlem. She said, ‘‘Of
course it won’t!’” On Saturday he had told her that she couldn’t
come to the meeting. He said to her, ‘‘“You know what happened
an hour ago? Exactly at eight o’clock, the phone woke me up.
Some man said, ‘Wake up, brother’ and hung up.’’ Malcolm X
said good-bye to Sister Betty.

And four hours later, Malcolm X left his room and took an
elevator down to the lobby, where he checked out. He got his
car and in the clear, warm midday of Sunday, February 21, he
drove uptown to the Audubon Ballroom.

The Audubon Ballroom, between Broadway and St. Nicholas
Avenue, on the south side of West 166th Street, is a two-story
building frequently rented for dances, organization functions,
and other affairs. A dark, slender, pretty young lady, occupa-
tionally a receptionist and avocationally a hardworking OAAU
assistant to Malcolm X, has since told me that she arrived early,
about 1:30 p.M., having some preliminary work to do. Entering,
She saw that the usual 400 wooden chairs had been set up, with
aisles on either side, but no center aisle; the young lady (she
wishes to be nameless) noticed that several people were already
seated in the front rows, but she gave it no thought since some
always came early, liking to get seats up close to the stage, to
savor to the fullest the dramatic orator Malcolm X. On the stage,
behind the speaker’s stand, were eight straight brown chairs
arranged in a row and behind it was the stage’s painted back-
drop, a mural of a restful country scene. The young lady’s re-
sponsibilities for this day had included making arrangements
and subsequent confirmations with the scheduled co-speaker,
the Reverend Milton Galamison, the militant Brooklyn Presby-
terian who in 1964 had led the two one-day Negro boycotts in
New York City public schools, protesting ‘‘racial imbalance.’’
She had similarly made arrangements with some other promi-

440 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

nent Negroes who were due to appeal to the audience for their
maximum possible contributions to aid the work of Malcolm X
and his organization.

The people who entered the ballroom were not searched at
the door. In recent weeks, Malcolm X had become irmitable
about this, saying “‘It makes people uncomfortable’ and that it
reminded him of Elijah Muhammad. “‘If I can’t be safe among
my own kind, where can J be?’’ he had once said testily. For
this day, also, he had ordered the press—as such—barred, white
or black. He was angry at what he interpreted as ‘‘slanted’’ press
treatment recently; he felt especially that the newspapers had
not taken seriously his statements of the personal danger he was
in. United Press International reporter Stanley Scott, a Negro,
had been admitted, he later said, when a Malcolm lieutenant
decided, ‘‘As a Negro, you will be allowed to enter as a citizen
if you like, but you must remove your press badge.’’ The same
criterion had applied to WMCA newsman Hugh Simpson. Both
he and Scott came early enough so that they obtained seats up
near the stage.

Malcolm X entered the ballroom at shortly before two o’clock,
trudging heavily instead of with his usual lithe strides, his young
lady assistant has told me. By this time several other of his
assistants were filtering in and out of the small anteroom along-
side the stage. He sat down sideways on a chair, his long legs
folded around its bottom, and he leaned one elbow on a kind of
counter before a rather rickety make-up mirror that entertainers
used when dances were held in the ballroom. He wore a dark
suit, white shirt and narrow dark tie. He said to a little group of
his assistants that he wasn’t going to talk about his personal
troubles, ‘‘I don’t want that to be the reason for anyone to come
to hear me.’’ He stood up and paced about the little room. He
said he was going to state that he had been hasty to accuse the
Black Muslims of bombing his home. ‘‘Things have happened
since that are bigger than what they can do. I know what they
can do. Things have gone beyond that.’’

Those in the anteroom could hear the sounds of the enlarging
audience outside taking seats. ‘“The way I feel, I ought not to
go out there at all today,’’ Malcolm X said. “‘In fact, I’m going
to ease some of this tension by telling the black man not to fight
himself—that’s all a part of the white man’s big maneuver, to

EPILOGUE 441

keep us fighting among ourselves, against each other. I’m not
fighting anyone, that’s not what we’re here for.’’ He kept glanc-
ing at his wrist watch, anticipating the arrival of Reverend Gal-
amison. ‘‘Whenever you make any appointment with a
minister,’’ he said to his young lady assistant, ‘“‘you have to call
them two or three hours before time, because they will change
their mind. This is typical of ministers.’’

‘*T felt bad, I felt that it was my fault,’’ the young lady told
me. “‘It was time for the meeting to start, too.’’ She turned to
Malcolm X’s stalwart assistant Benjamin X, known as a highly
able speaker himself. ‘“Brother, will you speak?’’ she asked—
then, turning to Malcolm X, “‘Is it all right if he speaks? And
maybe he could introduce you.’’ Malcolm X abruptly whirled
on her, and barked, ‘‘You know you shouldn’t ask me right in
front of him!’’ Then, collecting himself quickly, he said
‘‘Okay.’’ Brother Benjamin X asked how long he should speak.
Malcolm X said, glancing again at his wrist watch, ‘‘Make it
half an hour.’’ And Brother Benjamin X went through the door
leading onto the stage. They heard him expertly exhorting the
audience about what is needed today by ‘‘the black man here in
these United States.’’

The Reverend Galamison and other notables due hadn’t ar-
rived by three o’clock. ‘‘Brother Malcolm looked so disap-
pointed,’’ the young lady says. ‘‘He said to me ‘I don’t think
any of them are coming, either.’ I felt so terrible for him. It did
seem as if no one cared. I told him ‘Oh, don’t worry, they’re
just late, they’ll be here.’ ’’ (It was also reported by another
source that Galamison, unable to come to the meeting, did tele-
phone earlier, and that Malcolm X was told of this before he
went out to speak.)

Then Brother Benjamin X’s half-hour was up, and the young
lady and Malcolm X, alone back there in the anteroom, could
hear him entering the introduction: ‘‘And now, without further
remarks, I present to you one who is willing to put himself on
the line for you, a man who would give his life for you—I want
you to hear, listen, to understand—one who is a trojan for the
black man!”’

Applause rose from the audience; at the anteroom door, Mal-
colm X tumed and looked back at his young lady assistant.

442 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

‘You'll have to forgive me for raising my voice to you—I’m
just about at my wit’s end.”’

‘‘Oh, don’t mention it!’’ she said quickly, ‘‘I understand.’”’

His voice sounded far away, “‘I wonder if anybody really
understands—’’ And he walked out onto the stage, into the ap-
plause, smiling and nodding at Brother Benjamin X who passed
him en route to the anteroom.

The young lady had picked up some paperwork she had to do
when Benjamin X came in, perspiring. She patted his hand,
saying, ‘“That was good!’’ Through the anteroom door, just
ajar, she and Benjamin X heard the applause diminishing, then
the familiar ringing greeting, ‘‘Asalaikum, brothers and sis-
ters!”’

‘*Asalaikum salaam!’’ some in the audience responded.

About eight rows of seats from the front, then, a disturbance
occurred. In a sudden scuffling, a man’s voice was raised an-
grily, ‘‘Take your hand out of my pocket!’’ The entire audience
was swiveling to look. ‘‘Hold it! Hold it! Don’t get excited,”’
Malcolm X said crisply, ‘‘Let’s cool it, brothers—’’

With his own attention distracted, it is possible that he never
saw the gunmen. One woman who was seated near the front
says, ‘“The commotion back there diverted me just for an in-
stant, then I tumed back to look at Malcolm X just in time to
see at least three men in the front row stand and take aim and
Start firing simultaneously. It looked like a firing squad.’’ Nu-
merous persons later said they saw two men rushing toward the
Stage, one with a shotgun, the other with two revolvers. Said
U.P.I. reporter Stanley Scott: ‘‘Shots rang out. Men, women
and children ran for cover. They stretched out on the floor and
ducked under tables.’’ Radio Station WMCA reporter Hugh
Simpson said, “‘Then I heard this muffled sound, I saw Malcolm
hit with his hands still raised, then he fell back over the chairs
behind him. Everybody was shouting. I saw one man firing a
gun from under his coat behind me as [J hit it [the floor], too. He
was firing like he was in some Western, running backward to-
ward the door and firing at the same time.’”’

The young lady who was in the backstage anteroom told me,
‘It sounded like an army had taken over. Somehow, I knew. I
wouldn’t go and look. I wanted to remember him as he was.’’

Malcolm X’s hand flew to his chest as the first of sixteen

EPILOGUE 443

shotgun pellets or revolver slugs hit him. Then the other hand
flew up. The middle finger of the left hand was bullet-shattered,
and blood gushed from his goatee. He clutched his chest. His
big body suddenly fell back stiffly, knocking over two chairs;
his head struck the stage floor with a thud.

In the bedlam of shouting, screaming, running people, some
ran toward the stage. Among them Sister Betty scrambled up
from where she had thrown her body over her children, who
were shrieking; she ran crying hysterically, ‘‘My husband!
They’re killing my husband!’’ An unidentified photographer
snapped shots of Malcolm X prone on the stage floor with peo-
ple bent over him snatching apart his bloody shirt, loosening his
tie, trying to give him mouth-to-mouth artificial respiration, first
a woman, then a man. Said the woman, who identified herself
only as a registered nurse, ‘‘I don’t know how I got up on the
stage, but I threw myself down on who I thought was Malcolm—
but it wasn’t. I was willing to die for the man, I would have
taken the bullets myself; then I saw Malcolm, and the firing had
stopped, and I tried to give him artificial respiration.’’ Then
Sister Betty came through the people, herself a nurse, and people
recognizing her moved back; she fell on her knees looking down
on his bare, bullet-pocked chest, sobbing, “‘They killed him!’

Patrolman Thomas Hoy, 22, was stationed outside the Au-
dubon Ballroom entrance. “‘I heard the shooting and the place
exploded.’’ He rushed inside, he saw Malcolm X lying on the
stage, and then some people chasing a man. Patrolman Hoy
‘‘grabbed the suspect.’’

Louis Michaux, the owner of the Nationalist Memorial Book-
store at 125th Street and Seventh Avenue in Harlem, said, ‘‘I
was arriving late at the meeting where Malcolm X had invited
me, I met a large number of people mshing out.’’

Sergeant Alvin Aronoff and Patrolman Louis Angelos hap-
pened to be cruising by in their radio car when they heard shots.
‘“When we got there,’’ said Aronoff, ‘‘the crowds were pushing
out and screaming ‘Malcolm’s been shot!’ and ‘Get ’im, get
"im, don’t let him go!’ ’’ The two policemen grabbed by the
arms a Negro who was being kicked as he tried to escape. Firing
a warning shot into the air, the policemen pushed the man into
their police car, not wanting the angry crowd to close in, and
drove him quickly to the police station.

444. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

Someone had run up to the Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital’s
Vanderbilt Clinic emergency entrance at 167th Street and
grabbed a poles-and-canvas stretcher and brought it back to the
Audubon Ballroom stage. Malcolm X was put on the stretcher
and an unidentified photographer got a macabre picture of him,
with his mouth open and his teeth bared, as men rushed him up
to the hospital clinic emergency entrance. A hospital spokesman
said later that it was about 3:15 p.m. when Malcolm X reached
a third-floor operating room. He was “‘either dead, or in a death-
appearing state,’’ said the spokesman.

A team of surgeons cut through his chest to attempt to mas-
sage the heart. The effort was abandoned at 3:30 P.M.

Reporters who had descended upon the hospital office fired
questions at the spokesman, who kept saying brusquely, ‘‘I don’t
know.’’ Then he took the elevator upstairs to the emergency
operating room. A small crowd of friends and Sister Betty had
also pushed into the hospital office when the hospital spokesman
returned. Collecting himself, he made an announcement: ‘“The
gentleman you know as Malcolm X is dead. He died from gun-
shot wounds. He was apparently dead before he got here. He
was shot in the chest several times, and once in the cheek.”’

The group filed out of the hospital office. The Negro men
were visibly fighting their emotions; one kept smashing his fist
into the other cupped palm. Among the women, many were
openly crying.

Moments after the news flashed throughout Harlem (and
throughout the entire world), a crowd began to gather outside
the Hotel Theresa where Malcolm X’s OAAU had its head-
quarters. They learned over transistor radios that the man whom
the two policemen had taken from the murder scene initially
identified himself as Thomas Hagan, 22 (he was later identified
as Talmadge Hayer), in whose right trousers pocket the police-
men had found a .45 caliber cartridge clip containing four un-
used cartridges, and then at Jewish Memorial Hospital doctors
had reported that Hayer had been shot in the left thigh, his fore-
head was bruised and his body was beaten. “‘If we hadn’t gotten
him away, they would have kicked him to death,’’ Sergeant
Aronoff had said, and Hayer had been taken to the Bellevue
Hospital Prison Ward.

By five p.M., the crowd in front of the Theresa Hotel had been

EPILOGUE 445

quietly, carefully dispersed, and the Black Muslim Mosque
Number 7 and its restaurant around the corner, at 116th Street
and Lenox Avenue, had been ordered closed as a precautionary
measure, on the orders of the local 28th Precinct’s Captain Lloyd
Sealy, New York City’s first Negro to command a precinct.
When reporters telephoned the Black Muslim restaurant, a man’s
voice stated, ‘‘No one is available to make any statement.’’
When the OAAU office in the Theresa Hotel was tried, the
telephone kept ringing, unanswered. Precinct Captain Sealy soon
appeared, walking by himself along 125th Street, swinging his
nightstick and conversing with people he met.

At the 28th Precinct station house on West 123rd Street, the
forty policemen who were to have gone off duty at four P.M. had
been told they must remain on duty, and two full busloads of
the highly trained New York City Police Tactical Patrol Force
had arrived at the precinct. Various high police officials made
press statements. A Tactical Patrol Force Captain, Harry Kaiser,
said no unusual occurrences had been noted, and he anticipated
no trouble. Deputy Police Commissioner Walter Arm said that
‘‘hundreds’’ of extra policemen would be put into the Harlem
area, including some members of the Bureau of Special Ser-
vices. An Assistant Chief Inspector, Harry Taylor, speculated
that the assassins had not rushed from the ballroom among the
crowd, but had kept running past the stage and escaped on 165th
Street. In the early evening, the police department’s Chief of
Detectives Philip J. Walsh quit a vacation he was on to join the
hunt for the killers, and he said he looked forward to ‘‘a long-
drawn-out investigation.’’ Police and reporters at the shooting
scene had pictures taken of the stage, with white chalk marks
now circling five bullet holes in the speaker’s stand; there were
other holes in the stage’s mural backdrop, indicating slugs or
shotgun pellets which had either missed Malcolm X or passed
through him. Police declined to discuss a rumor sweeping Har-
lem that they had some motion pictures which had been taken
in the Audubon Ballroom as the murder took place. Another
rumor that gained swift momentum was that when Sister Betty
had leaned over her husband’s body, she had removed from his
coat pocket a paper on which he had written the names of those
he had supposedly learned were assigned to execute him.

Deputy Police Commissioner Walter Arm stressed that the

446 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

department had made efforts to protect Malcolm X. Twenty
different times the department had offered protection to Mal-
colm X or to some of his assistants, and the protection was
refused, said Commissioner Arm, and seventeen times uni-
formed police guards had been offered for the OAAU meetings
at the Audubon Ballroom, the most recent time being ‘‘last Sun-
day.’’ Asked about the pistol permit that Malcolm X had said
publicly he planned to request, Commissioner Arm said that as
far as he knew, Malcolm X had never actually filed a request.

A number of questions have been raised. The ‘‘suspect’’ ar-
rested by Patrolman Hoy as he was being chased from the meet-
ing has, at present writing, not been identified publicly. Deputy
Police Commissioner Walter Arm’s statement that Malcolm X
refused police protection conflicts directly with the statements
of many of his associates that during the week preceding his
assassination Malcolm X complained repeatedly that the police
would not take his requests for protection seriously. Finally,
although police sources said that a special detail of twenty men
had been assigned to the meeting and that it had even been
attended by agents of the Bureau of Special Services, these men
were nowhere in evidence during or after the assassination, and
Talmadge Hayer, rescued from the crowd and arrested as a sus-
pect immediately after the assassination, was picked up by two
patrolmen in a squad car cruising by.

On long-distance telephones, reporters reached the Chicago
mansion headquarters of Elijah Muhammad. He would not come
to the telephone, but a spokesman of his said that Muhammad
**has no comment today, but he might have something to say
tomorrow.’’ No statement could be obtained either from Mal-
colm X’s oldest brother, Wilfred X, the Black Muslim minister
of Mosque Number 1 in Detroit. At his home, a woman told
reporters that Minister Wilfred X was not there, that he had not
gone to New York, and she didn’t believe he had any plans to
do so. (Minister Wilfred X, reached later, said that he antici-
pated attending the Black Muslim convention in Chicago on the
following Sunday, and regarding his brother, ‘‘My brother is
dead and there is nothing we can do to bring him back.’’)

As dark fell, many Negro men and women assembled before
Louis Michaux’s bookstore, where most of Harlem’s Black Na-
tionalist public activity centered. A small group of OAAU mem-

EPILOGUE 447

bers opened their Hotel Theresa headquarters and sat in the room
and would not make any statements to reporters.

The New York Daily News came onto the newsstands with
its cover page devoted to ‘‘Malcolm X Murdered’’ over the
photograph of him being borne away on the stretcher, and a sub-
caption, “‘Gunned Down at Rally.’’ In Long Island, where she
had been taken just after her father’s murder, six-year-old At-
tallah carefully wrote a letter to him, ‘‘Dear Daddy, I love you
so. O dear, O dear, I wish you wasn’t dead.’’

The body—still listed as ‘‘John Doe’’ because it had not yet
been formally identified—had been moved late Sunday to the
New York City Medical Examiner’s office at 520 First Avenue.
The autopsy confirmed that shotgun pellet wounds in the heart
had killed Malcolm X. Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Milton
Helpern said that death followed the first sawed-off shotgun blast
which caused thirteen wounds in the heart and chest, and he said
that .38 and .45 caliber bullet wounds in the thighs and legs
evidenced that Malcolm X had been shot at after he had fallen.

Monday morning the official identification was made at the
Medical Examiner’s office by Sister Betty, who was accompa-
nied by Percy Sutton, Malcolm X’s Boston half-sister Mrs. Ella
Collins, and Joseph E. Hall, General Manager of the large Unity
Funeral Home in Harlem. Leaving the Medical Examiner’s of-
fice at about noon to go and complete funeral arrangements,
Sister Betty told reporters, “‘No one believed what he said. They
never took him seriously, even after the bombing of our home
they said he did it himself!’’

At the Unity Funeral Home on the east side of Eighth Avenue
between 126th and 127th Streets, Sister Betty chose a six-foot-
nine-inch bronze casket lined with egg-shell velvet. At her
request, the funeral would be delayed until the following Sat-
urday, five days away. The funeral home’s manager Hall an-
nounced to the press that the body would be dressed in a business
suit, and it would be put on view under a glass shield from
Tuesday through Friday, then the Saturday services would be at
a Harlem church.

Soon posted on the funeral home’s directory was ‘‘El-Hajj
Malik El-Shabazz.’’ In Brooklyn, orthodox Moslem Sheik Al-
Hajh Daoud Ahmed Faisal of the Islamic Mission of America

448 |THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

said that the delayed funeral services violated a Moslem practice
that the sun should not set twice on a believer’s body, that the
Koran prescribed burial inside twenty-four hours if possible, and
Moslems believed that when a body grows cold the soul leaves
it and when the body is put into the earth it comes alive again.

In Chicago, where policemen were watching all bus depots,
railways, terminals, O’Hare Airport and highway entrances, Eli-
jah Muhammad, under heavy guard in his three-story mansion,
said, ‘‘Malcolm died according to his preaching. He seems
to have taken weapons as his god. Therefore, we couldn’t tol-
erate a man like that. He preached war. We preach peace. We
are permitted to fight if we are attacked—that’s the Scripture,
the Koran, and the Bible, too. But we will never be the aggres-
sor. I don’t have the right to be frightened, because I was chosen
by Allah. If Allah gives me up to the hands of the wicked, I am
satisfied. My life is in the hands of Allah.’’ The grounds outside
the mansion were patrolled by both Chicago police and Fruit of
Islam bodyguards. More of both patrolled before the University
of Islam high school, and the offices of the newspaper Muham-
mad Speaks.

Malcolm X’s lawyer, Assemblyman Percy Sutton, said that
the police now had the names of those whom Malcolm X had
said planned to kill him. All over Harlem, reporters were inter-
viewing people, and microphones were being put before the
mouths of the man-in-the-street. At police precinct station
houses, people being questioned were leaving by side entrances.
Said Assistant Chief Inspector Joseph Coyle, in charge of Man-
hattan North detectives, “‘... . a well-planned conspiracy.
We’ re doing a screening process of the four hundred people who
were in the hall at the time.’’ Fifty detectives were on the case,
he said, and he had been in touch with police in other cities.

Harlem was mostly asleep when around the Black Muslim
Mosque Number 7, on the top floor of a four-story building at
116th Street and Lenox Avenue, an explosive sound at 2:15 A.M.
ripped the night. Firemen were instantly summoned by the four
policemen who had been guarding the sidewalk entrance to
the mosque. Within a few minutes flames burst through the
building’s roof and leaped thirty feet into the air. For the next
seven hours firemen would pour water into the building. On an
adjacent roof they found an empty five-gallon gasoline can, a

EPILOGUE 449

brown, gasoline-stained shopping bag, and oily rags. South-
bound IRT subway service was re-routed for a while, also three
bus lines. At the spectacular five-alarm fire’s height, a wall of
the building collapsed; it smashed two fire engines at the curb
and injured five firemen, one seriously, and also a pedestrian
who had been across the street buying a newspaper. By day-
break, when the fire was declared ‘‘under control,’’ the Black
Muslim mosque and the Gethsemane Church of God in Christ
on the floor beneath it were gutted, and seven street-level stores,
including the Black Muslim restaurant, were ‘‘total losses.”’
Fire Department sources said that replacing the ruined equip-
ment would cost ‘‘around $50,000.’’ Joseph X of the Black
Muslims, who once had been the immediate assistant of Mal-
colm X, said that Elijah Muhammad’s followers had two alter-
native mosques to meet in, one in Brooklyn and the other in
Queens, Long Island. Both these mosques were under continu-
ous police guard.

Across the nation in San Francisco on Tuesday afternoon two
policemen discovered a fire beginning in the San Francisco Black
Muslim Mosque, and quickly extinguished it. Kerosene had been
splashed on the sidewalk and door and set afire.

The body of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz originally had been
scheduled to go on public view at 2:30 p.m. Tuesday. Crowds
stood in line behind police barricades waiting to be admitted and
the policemen wherever one looked included numerous patrol
cars and even sharpshooters on the roofs around the Unity Fu-
neral Home. But the telephoned bomb-threats which had begun
shortly after noon made necessary two evacuations of the funeral
home for bomb-squad searches, which proved futile. A search
was conducted even in the 43rd Street offices of the New York
Times after a man telephoned complaining of an editorial about
Malcolm X and said, “‘Your plant will be destroyed at four
o’clock.’’

At the funeral home in Harlem, policemen inspected all pack-
ages and floral pieces being delivered, as well as the large hand-
bags of women mourners. It was 6:15 P.M. when a cordon of
policemen arrived flanking Sister Betty and four close relatives
and friends who entered the funeral home in a glare of flash-
bulbs. ‘‘She’s a black Jacqueline Kennedy,’’ observed a white

450 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

reporter. ‘‘She has class, she knows what to do and when, she
handles herself beautifully.’

It was 7:10 P.M. when the family party emerged and left.
After ten minutes, the first of the waiting public was admitted.
Between then and an hour before midnight, two thousand peo-
ple, including scores of whites, had filed past the open coffin in
which the body lay dressed in a dark business suit, a white shirt
and dark tie, with a small, oblong brass plate above it inscribed,
“El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz—May 19, 1925—Feb. 21, 1965.’

Malcolm X followers had been canvassing with growing anx-
iety for a Harlem church that would accept the Saturday funeral.
Officials of several churches had refused, including a spokesman
for the community’s largest church, Abyssinian Baptist, of which
Congressman-Reverend Adam Clayton Powell is the pastor;
others which turned down requests, according to the Amsterdam
News, included the Williams C.M.E. Church and The Refuge
Temple of The Church of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Then the fu-
neral was accepted by Bishop Alvin A. Childs for the Faith
Temple, Church of God in Christ located at 147th Street and
Amsterdam Avenue. The Faith Temple, a former movie theater
which had been converted fifteen years previously, could seat a
thousand in its auditorium and another seven hundred in its base-
ment. Bishop Childs, who in 1964 had been elected as Harlem’s
‘locality mayor,’’ told the press that it was “‘as a humanitarian
gesture’’ that he made his church available, and of Malcolm X,
he said, “*. . . a militant and vocal person. I did not agree with
all of his philosophy, but this did not affect our friendship.’’
Shortly after the news became known, Bishop Childs and his
wife began to receive the first of a succession of bomb threats
telephoned both to the church and to their home.

Prominent Negro figures were being quoted by the various
press media. The famed psychologist Dr. Kenneth B. Clark told
Jet magazine, “‘I had a deep respect for this man. I believe that
he was sincerely groping to find a place in the fight for Civil
Rights, on a level where he would be respected and understood
fully. I looked forward to his growth along those lines. It doesn’t
matter so much about his past. It is tragic that he was cut down
at the point when he seemed on the verge of achieving the po-
sition of respectability he sought.’’ A New York Times corre-

EPILOGUE 451

spondent in a London press conference quoted the author and
dramatist James Baldwin, who thought the death of Malcolm X
was ‘‘a major setback for the Negro movement.’’ Pointing at
white reporters, Baldwin accused, ‘‘You did it. . . whoever did
it was formed in the crucible of the Western world, of the Amer-
ican Republic!’’ European ‘“‘rape’’ of Africa began racial prob-
lems and was therefore the beginning of the end for Malcolm X,
Baldwin said.

The bookstore owner in Harlem, Louis Michaux, a major
voice in the community, told the Amsterdam News, ‘‘It’s things
like the murder of Malcolm X that drive the masses closer to-
gether. He died in the same manner that Patrice Lumumba met
his death in the Congo. . . . We must unite, not fight.’’

‘*‘Malcolm X caused many young Negroes to take a new vi-
sion of themselves,’’ said Bayard Rustin, a main figure in or-
ganizing the March on Washington in 1963. A ‘‘third party’’
was suspected of killing Malcolm X by CORE’s National Di-
rector James Farmer, who said, ‘‘Malcolm’s murder was cal-
culated to produce more violence and murder and vengeance
killings.’’ A few days later, asked for his opinion of a rumor
circulating about that a ‘‘Red Chinese’’ plot brought about the
murder, Farmer said, ‘‘I would not say it is impossible.”’

**For the Negroes in America, the death of Malcolm X is the
most portentous event since the deportation of Marcus Garvey
in the 1920’s,’’ said Dr. C. Eric Lincoln, author of The Black
Muslims in America, who talked to the press at Brown Univer-
sity in Providence, R.I., where he was a visiting professor and
research fellow. ‘‘I doubt there are ‘international implications’
in the slaying. The answer is closer to home. The answer is in
the local struggle among contending rivals for leadership of the
black masses, which are potentially the most volatile sub-group
in America.’’ Said Roy Wilkins, Executive Secretary of the Na-
tional Association for the Advancement of Colored People,
‘*Master spell-binder that he was, Malcolm X in death cast a
spell more far-flung and more disturbing than any he cast in
life.”’

The New York City police investigators who were pursuing
the case were unhappy that Malcolm’s followers had ‘‘not come
forward’’ to aid the investigation. At police request, the press
printed a telephone number, SW S-8117, for “‘strictly confiden-

452 |THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

tial’’ information that anyone might offer concerning the slay-
ing. The police had picked up and were holding Reuben Francis,
described as a Malcolm X ‘‘bodyguard,’’ who was believed to
be the person who had shot the suspected assassin Talmadge
Hayer during the melee the previous Sunday at the Audubon
Ballroom. Hayer remained in the Bellevue Prison Ward, await-
ing surgery.

As thousands continued viewing the body of the slain Mal-
colm X amid intermittent new bomb-threats telephoned to the
funeral home, and to the Faith Temple where his funeral was
scheduled for Saturday, a new organization, the Federation of
Independent Political Action, threatened to picket all Harlem
business establishments which would not close from Thursday
afternoon until Monday morning ‘‘in tribute to Malcolm X.”’
The FIPA’s spokesman was Jesse Gray, the well-known rent-
strike leader; Harlem pedestrians began to be handed printed
sheets reading, in part, ‘‘If the stores refuse to close, they iden-
tify with our enemy—therefore we must close them—pass them
by. Those that shop along 125th Street during the hours that the
stores are to be closed identify with the murderous stooge that
allowed the power structure to use his hands to kill Brother
Malcolm.’’ At a late evening FIPA rally before Louis Mi-
chaux’s bookstore, Jesse Gray declared that in 1965 a Negro
should run for Mayor of New York ‘‘in the name of Malcolm,”’
and speculated that such a candidate should receive 100,000
votes. Shortly after the FIPA rally, merchants and other mem-
bers of the Uptown Chamber of Commerce met and swiftly
passed a resolution urging all Harlem stores to remain open and
“‘continue to serve their customers,’’ and recommendation was
made that full pay be given to any store employees who might
wish to attend Malcolm X’s funeral on Saturday moming. Then
one after another, Harlem leaders sharply criticized the FIPA
proposal as “‘irresponsible.’’ Finally, nearly all of the Harlem
stores kept their doors open for business. The FIPA got together
about twenty pickets who patrolled for a while before Harlem’s
largest store, Blumstein’s; leading the pickets were two white
men carrying signs reading ‘‘All Stores Should Close. Honor
Malcolm X.’’

The weather had turned very cold. Icicles hung from the col-
lapsed roof of the fire-ruined building that had housed Black

EPILOGUE 453

Muslim Mosque Number 7. The Amsterdam News, its offices
barely a block down Eighth Avenue from the funeral home where
Malcolm X’s body lay, editorialized, “‘Steady, Eddie!”’ saying
that orderly tributes to Malcolm X would ‘‘confound his critics,
who would like nothing better than to see black people rioting
over his remains.’

The fear of serious mass rioting set off by some unpredictable
spark hung steadily in the air. An increasing number of Harlem
leaders declared that the principal reason for this was the down-
town white press media, sensationalizing what was going on in
a calm, dignified community. Finally the Harlem Ministers’ In-
terfaith Association would issue a formal accusation: ‘‘The
screaming headlines of many of our newspapers make it seem
as if all of Harlem was an armed camp, ready to explode at any
moment. The vast majority of the citizens of the Harlem com-
munity is not involved in the unfortunate acts of violence that
have been grossly overplayed by the press. Many times the
slanting of the news is able to bring about an atmosphere through
which a few depraved and reckless individuals can take advan-
tage.”’

‘“‘Malcolm X Died Broke’’—that headline in Harlem’s Am-
sterdam News came as a shock to many in the community. Few
had reflected that Malcolm X, upon becoming a Black Muslim
minister, had signed an oath of poverty, so that for twelve years
he never acquired anything in his own name. (Somewhere I have
read that Malcolm X in his Black Muslim days received about
$175 weekly to cover his living and other expenses exclusive of
travel.) “‘He left his four daughters and pregnant wife with no
insurance of any kind, no savings, and no income,’’ the Am-
sterdam News story said (and it might have added that he never
drew up a will; he had made a February 26th appointment with
his lawyer—five days after his death). Within the week, two
groups had organized and were asking Harlemites for contn-
butions to help Sister Betty raise and educate the children (since
organized as the Malcolm X Daughters’ Fund at Harlem’s Free-
dom National Bank, 275 West 125th Street).

In Boston, Malcolm X’s half-sister, Mrs. Ella Mae Collins,
told a news conference that she would choose the leaders of
the OAAU to succeed Malcolm X. Mrs. Collins operated the
Sarah A. Little School of Preparatory Arts where, she said, chil-

454. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

dren were taught Arabic, Swahili, French, and Spanish. In 1959,
she, too, had broken away from Elijah Muhammad’s Black
Muslims, to which she had originally been converted by Mal-
colm X.

Far from Harlem, in lands where Malcolm X had traveled,
the press had given the murder a coverage that had highly irn-
tated the Director of the United States Information Agency,
Carl T. Rowan, himself a Negro. In Washington, addressing
the American Foreign Service Association, Rowan said that
when he first heard of the murder, he knew it would be grossly
misconstrued in some countries where people were unaware what
Malcolm X represented, and he said the USIA had worked hard
to inform the African press of the facts about Malcolm X and
his preachments, but still there had been ‘‘a host of African
reaction based on misinformation and misrepresentation.”’

Said USIA Director Rowan, ‘‘Mind you, here was a Negro
who preached segregation and race hatred, killed by another
Negro, presumably from another organization that preaches seg-
regation and race hatred, and neither of them representative of
more than a tiny minority of the Negro population of America—’’
Rowan held up some foreign newspapers. ‘‘All this about an
ex-convict, ex-dope peddler who became a racial fanatic,’’ con-
tinued Rowan. “‘I can only conclude that we Americans know
less about what goes on in the minds of other peoples than we
thought, or the need to inform is even greater than we in USIA
thought it to be.’’

The Daily Times of Lagos, in Nigeria, had said: ‘‘Like all
mortals, Malcolm X was not without his faults . . . but that he
was a dedicated and consistent disciple of the movement for the
emancipation of his brethren, no one can doubt . . . Malcolm X
has fought and died for what he believed to be right. He will
have a place in the palace of martyrs.’’ The Ghanaian Times,
Accra, called Malcolm X ‘‘the militant and most popular of
Afro-American anti-segregationist leaders’? and it added his
name to *‘a host of Africans and Americans’’ ranging from John
Brown to Patrice Lumumba ‘‘who were martyred in freedom’s
cause.’” Also in Accra, the Daily Graphic: ‘‘The assassination
of Malcolm X will go down in history as the greatest blow the
American integrationist movement has suffered since the shock-
ing assassinations of Medgar Evers and John F. Kennedy.”’

EPILOGUE 455

The Pakistan Hurriyet of Karachi said: ‘‘A great Negro
leader’’: the Pakistan Times said, ‘‘His death is a definite set-
back to the Negro movement for emancipation.’ The Peking,
China People’s Daily said the killing happened ‘‘because Mal-
colm X ... fought for the emancipation of the 23,000,000
American Negroes.’’ According to correspondents’ reports, the
first Algerian headline said ‘‘the Ku Klux Klan’’ assassinated
Malcolm X; the pro-Communist Alger Republican’s editorial on
the slaying accused ‘‘American Fascism,’’ and the Times’ Al-
gerian correspondent said Algerians showed ‘‘signs’’ of raising
Malcolm X to martyrdom. The U.S. Consulate in Georgetown,
British Guiana, was marched on by pickets accusing “‘American
imperialists.’ Another Peking, China paper, Jenmin Jihpao,
said that the death showed that ‘‘in dealing with imperialist op-
pressors, violence must be met with violence.’’ Pravda in Mos-
cow carried only brief stories and no editorial comment, the New
York Times Moscow correspondent said, and another in Poland
said there was no noticeable reaction of any kind, and that ‘‘few
Poles had heard of Malcolm or were interested in the racial
issue.’’ Reportedly, the murder was only routinely reported with
little special interest by the press in Cairo, Beirut, New Delhi,
and Saigon. In Paris and Western Europe, the story was ‘‘es-
sentially a one-day sensation,’’ with the West German press
handling it ‘‘as if it were in the Chicago gangster tradition.’
The New York Times said: ‘“The London newspapers have prob-
ably played the story harder and longer than most, giving con-
tinuing emphasis to the police work on the murder. The London
Times and the London Daily Telegraph both carried editorial
comments, but neither treated Malcolm X as a major figure.’’
Also reported by the New York Times London correspondent
was that ‘‘a London group calling itself the Council of African
Organizations had violently attacked the United States over the
murder. This group is made up of students and other unofficial
African representatives here. A press release described Malcolm
as a ‘leader in the struggle against American imperialism,
oppression and racialism.’ It said, ‘the butchers of Patrice
Lumumba are the very same monsters who have murdered Mal-
colm X in cold blood.’ ”’

Friday moming New York City press headlines concerning
Malcolm X’s slaying were devoted to the police department’s

456 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

apprehension of a second slaying suspect. He was a stocky,
round-faced, twenty-six-year-old karate expert named Norman
3X Butler, allegedly a Black Muslim, and a week later, this was
followed by the arrest of Thomas 15X Johnson, also allegedly
a Black Muslim. Both men had been earlier indicted in the Jan-
uary, 1965, shooting of Benjamin Brown, a New York City
Correction Officer and a Black Muslim defector. Both men were
indicted, along with Hayer, for the murder of Malcolm X on
March 10.

With the news announcement of Butler’s arrest, and his at
least tentative identification as a member of Elijah Muhammad’s
organization, tension reached a new high among all who had
any role in the feud. The Black Muslim National Convention
was scheduled to begin that Friday in Chicago, to last for three
days. Early Friday morning in New York at the Kennedy Airport
dozens of policemen spent forty minutes searching a plane be-
longing to Capital Airlines, which back in December 1964 had
accepted a Mosque Number 7 charter flight to Chicago and re-
tum, at a fee of $5,175.54 which the mosque had subsequently
paid in increments.

Altogether, about three thousand Black Muslims from their
mosques in most sizable cities were in Chicago for their annual
‘*Saviour’s Day’’ convention, regarded by them as similar to
the holiday of Christmas. In the order of arrival, each group
from the different mosques and cities assembled outside the big
sports coliseum south of Chicago’s business district, the broth-
ers of all ages dressed in neat, dark suits and white shirts and
the sisters garbed in flowing silk gowns and headdresses—and
every individual was filtered through an intense security check
that Chicago police sources said was unprecedented in Chicago
except for a visiting President.

Searched even more closely were the relatively few non-
Muslim Negroes who came to be spectators, and the press rep-
resentatives both white and black. ‘‘Take off your hat, show
some respect!’’ snapped a Black Muslim guard at a white re-
porter. As each person was ‘‘cleared’’ a Fruit of Islam man
ushered him or her to a specific seat in the drafty interior of the
7500-seat coliseum. (Later, Muslim sources would blame the
half-full house upon ‘‘the white man’s dividing of Negroes,”’
but observers who recalled the packed coliseum in 1964 said

EPILOGUE 457

that bombing fears kept away many non-Muslim Negroes.) The
audience sat lightly murmuring under the two huge hanging ban-
ners proclaiming ‘‘Welcome Elijah Muhammad—We Are Glad
To Have You With Us’’ and ‘‘We Must Have Some Of This
Land’’ (referring to Elijah Muhammad’s demand that “‘one or
more states’’ be turned over to the ‘‘23 million so-called Ne-
groes’’ in America as partial reparation for ‘‘over a century of
our free blood and sweat as slaves which helped to develop this
wealthy nation where still today you show us you do not wish
or intend to accept us as equals’’). In front of the wide, raised
speaker’s platform were two nearly life-sized photographic
blowups of Elijah Muhammad. Standing between the stage and
the audience were Fruit of Islam guards. Others were prowling
the aisles, scanning rows of faces, with intermittent peremptory
demands for identification, ‘‘What mosque, brother?’’ Still more
Fruit of Islam men were inspecting the coliseum’s vacant bal-
cony, backstage, downstairs, and rafters and roof.

The ghost of Malcolm X was in the coliseum. First, in a high
drama for the Muslims, Elijah Muhammad’s son, Wallace De-
laney Muhammad, who once had sided with Malcolm X, faced
the audience and begged forgiveness for his defection. Next,
two brothers of Malcolm X, Wilfred and Philbert, both of them
Black Muslim ministers, urged unity with Elijah Muhammad.
Said Minister Wilfred X of the Detroit mosque, ‘“We would be
ignorant to get confused and go to arguing and fighting among
ourselves and forget who the real enemy 1s.’’ Said Minister Phil-
bert X, of the Lansing mosque, ‘‘Malcolm was my own blood
brother, next to me. . . . I was shocked. No man wants to see
his own brother destroyed. But I knew that he was traveling on
a very reckless and dangerous road. I made attempts to change
his course. When he was living, I tried to keep him living; now
that he is dead, there is nothing I can do.”’ Indicating the seated
Elijah Muhammad, Minister Philbert X declared, ‘“Where he
leads me, I will follow’’—and then he introduced the Black
Muslim leader to make his address.

Only the head of Elyah Muhammad was visible above the
grim-faced Fruit of Islam men in a living wall, Cassius Clay
among them. Crescents, stars, moons and suns were in gold-
thread embroidery on the small fez that Elijah Muhammad wore.
He said in his speech: ‘‘For a long time, Malcolm stood here

458 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

where I stand. In those days, Malcolm was safe, Malcolm was
loved. God, Himself, protected Malcolm. . . . For more than a
year, Malcolm was given his freedom. He went everywhere—
Asia, Europe, Africa, even to Mecca, trying to make enemies
for me. He came back preaching that we should not hate the
enemy. . . . He came here a few weeks ago to blast away his
hate and mud-slinging; everything he could think of to disgrace
me... . We didn’t want to kill Malcolm and didn’t try to kill
him. They know I didn’t harm Malcolm. They know I loved
him. His foolish teaching brought him to his own end... . ”’

Both physically and emotionally worked up, often Elijah Mu-
hammad would begin coughing. ‘‘Take it easy! Take your
time!’’ his audience pleaded with him. ‘‘He had no right to reject
me!’’ Elijah Muhammad declared. ‘‘He was a star, who went
astray! . . . They knew I didn’t harm Malcolm, but he tried to
make war against me.’’ He said that Malcolm X would have
been given ‘‘the most glorious of burials’’ if he had stayed with
the Black Muslims and had died a natural death; ‘‘instead, we
stand beside the grave of a hypocrite! . . . Malcolm! Who was
he leading? Who was he teaching? He has no truth! We didn’t
want to kill Malcolm! His foolish teaching would bring him to
his own end! I am not going to let the crackpots destroy the good
things Allah sent to you and me!’’

Elijah Muhammad drove his frail energy to speak for about
an hour and a half. He challenged any would-be assassins: ‘‘If
you seek to snuff out the life of Elijah Muhammad, you are
inviting your own doom! The Holy Quran tells us not to pick a
fight but to defend ourselves. We will fight!’’ It was mid-
aftemmoon when Elijah Muhammad turned back to his seat with
some three thousand Black Muslim men, women, and children
shouting “‘Yes, sir! . . . So sweet! . . . All praise to Muham-
mad!”’

In the Unity Funeral Home in the Harlem community of New
York City in the mid-afternoon, the public’s viewing of the body
of Malcolm X was interrupted by the arrival of a party of about
a dozen people whose central figure was a white-turbaned, dark-
robed elderly man whose white beard fell to his chest and who
carried a forked stick. When reporters rushed to attempt inter-
views, another man in the party waved them away, saying, “‘A
silent tongue does not betray its owner.’’ The man was Sheik

EPILOGUE 459

Ahmed Hassoun, a Sudanese, a member of the Sunni Moslems,
who had taught in Mecca for 35 years when he had met Malcolm
X there, and then had soon come to the United States to serve
as Malcolm X’s spiritual advisor and to teach at the Muslim
Mosque, Inc.

Sheik Hassoun prepared the body for burial in accordance
with Moslem ritual. Removing the Western clothing in which
the body had been on display, Sheik Hassoun washed the body
with special holy oil. Then he draped the body in the traditional
seven white linen shrouds, called the kafan. Only the face with
its reddish moustache and goatee was left exposed. The mourmers
who had come with Sheik Hassoun filed to the bier and he read
passages from the Koran. Then he turned to a funeral home
representative: ‘‘Now the body is ready for burial.’” Soon, the
sheik and his retinue left, and the viewing by the public re-
sumed. When the word spread, numbers of persons who had
come before returned for another wait in the long, slowly mov-
ing line, wanting to see the Moslem burial dress.

It was late during this Friday afternoon that I got into the
quietly moving line, thinking about the Malcolm X with whom
I had worked closely for about two years. Blue-uniformed po-
licemen stood at intervals watching us shuffle along within the
wooden gray-painted police barricades. Just across the street
several men were looking at the line from behind a large side
window of the ‘‘Lone Star Barber Shop, Eddie Johns, Prop.,
William Ashe, Mgr.’’ Among the policemen were a few press
representatives talking to each other to pass the time. Then we
were inside the softly lit, hushed, cool, large chapel. Standing
at either end of the long, handsome bronze coffin were two big,
dark policemen, mostly looking straight ahead, but moving their
lips when some viewer tarried. Within minutes I had reached
the coffin. Under the glass lid, I glimpsed the delicate white
shrouding over the chest and up like a hood about the face on
which I tried to concentrate for as long as I could. All that I
could think was that it was he, all rght—Malcolm X. ‘‘Move
on’’—the policeman’s voice was soft. Malcolm looked to me—
just waxy and dead. The policeman’s hand was gesturing at his
waist level. I thought, “‘Well—good-bye.’’ I moved on.

Twenty-two thousand people had viewed the body when the
line was stopped that night for good, at eleven P.M. Quietly,

460 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

between midnight and dawn, a dozen police cars flanked a hearse
that went the twenty-odd blocks farther uptown to the Faith
Temple. The bronze coffin was wheeled inside and placed upon
a platform draped in thick dark red velvet, in front of the altar,
and the coffin’s lid was reopened. As the hearse pulled away,
policemen stood at posts of vigil both inside and outside Faith
Temple. It was crispy cold outside.

About six A.M., people began forming a line on the east side
of Amsterdam Avenue. By nine A.M., an estimated six thousand
persons thronged the nearby blocks, behind police barriers, and
faces were in every window of the apartment buildings across
the street; some stood shivering on fire escapes. From 145th
Street to 149th Street, policemen had blocked off all automobile
traffic except for their own cars, the newspapers’ cars, and the
equipment trucks for radio and television on-the-spot coverage.
There were hundreds of policemen, some on the rooftops in the
immediate area. Combing the crowd’s edges were reporters with
microphones and notebooks. ‘‘He was fascinating, a remarkably
fascinating man, that’s why I’m here,’’ a white girl in her mid-
twenties told a New York Times man; and a Negro woman, “‘I’m
paying my respects to the greatest black man in this century.
He’s a black man. Don’t say colored.’’ Another woman, notic-
ing steel helmets inside a television network car, laughed to the
driver, ‘“You getting ready for next summer?’’

When the Faith Temple doors were opened at 9:20, a corps
cof OAAU members entered. Within the next quarter-hour,
twenty of the men had ushered in six hundred seat-holders. Fifty
press reporters, photographers and television cameramen clus-
tered beneath religious murals to the rear of the altar, and some
stood on chairs to see better. A Negro engineer monitored re-
cording equipment between the altar and the coffin which was
guarded by eight uniformed Negro policemen and two uni-
formed Negro policewomen. One Negro plain-clothes policeman
sat on either side of heavily veiled Sister Betty in the second
row. The raised lid of the coffin hid the Faith Temple’s brass
tithe box and candelabra; the head of the Islamic Mission of
America, in Brooklyn, Sheik Al-Haj Daoud Ahmed Faisal, had
counseled that any hint of Christianity in the services would
make the deceased a kafir, an unbeliever. (The sheik had also

EPILOGUE 461

dissented with the days of public exhibition of the body: ‘*Death
is a private matter between Allah and the deceased.’”)

Before the services began, OAAU ushers brought in one floral
wreath—a two-by-five arrangement of the Islamic Star and Cres-
cent in white carnations against a background of red carnations.

First, the actor Ossie Davis and his wife, actress Ruby Dee,
read the notes, telegrams and cables of condolence. They came
from every major civil-nghts organization; from individual fig-
ures such as Dr. Martin Luther King; from organizations and
governments abroad, such as The Africa-Pakistan-West-Indian
Society of the London School of Economics, the Pan-African
Congress of Southern Africa, the Nigerian Ambassador from
Lagos, the President of the Republic of Ghana, Dr. Kwame
Nkrumah: ‘‘The death of Malcolm X shall not have been in
vain.”’

Next, Omar Osman stood, a representative of the Islam Cen-
ter of Switzerland and the United States: ‘‘We knew Brother
Malcolm as a blood brother, particularly after his pilgrimage to
Mecca last year. The highest thing that a Moslem can aspire to
is to die on the battlefield and not die at his bedside—’’ He
paused briefly to wait out the applause from among the mourn-
ers. ‘““‘Those who die on the battlefield are not dead, but are
alive!’’ The applause was louder, and cries rose, ‘‘Right!
Right!’’ Omar Osman then critically commented upon the re-
marks which USIA Director Carl Rowan had made in Washing-
ton, D.C., about the foreign press reaction to the death of the
deceased. From the audience then hisses rose.

Again, the actor Ossie Davis stood. His deep voice delivered
the eulogy to Malcolm X which was going to cause Davis sub-
sequently to be hailed more than ever among Negroes in Har-
lem:

‘*Here—at this final hour, in this quiet place, Harlem has
come to bid farewell to one of its brightest hopes—extinguished
now, and gone from us forever... .

‘*Many will ask what Harlem finds to honor in this stormy,
controversial and bold young captain—and we will smile. . . .
They will say that he is of hate—a fanatic, a racist—who can
only bring evil to the cause for which you struggle!

‘*And we will answer and say unto them: Did you ever talk
to Brother Malcolm? Did you ever touch him, or have him smile

462 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

at you? Did you ever really listen to him? Did he ever do a mean
thing? Was he ever himself associated with violence or any pub-
lic disturbance? For if you did you would know him. And if you
knew him you would know why we must honor him: Malcolm
was our manhood, our living, black manhood! This was his
meaning to his people. And, in honoring him, we honor the best
in ourselves. . . . And we will know him then for what he was
and is—a Prince—our own black shining Prince!—who didn’t
hesitate to die, because he loved us so.’’

Brief speeches were made by others. Then, the family, the
OAAU members and other Muslims present stood and filed by
the coffin to view the body for the last time. Finally, the two
plain-clothes policemen ushered Sister Betty to have her last
sight of her husband. She leaned over, kissing the glass over
him; she broke into tears. Until then almost no crying had been
heard in the services, but now Sister Betty’s sobs were taken up
by other women.

The services had lasted a little over an hour when the three
minutes of prayers said for every Muslim who is dead were
recited by Alhajj Heshaam Jaaber, of Elizabeth, New Jersey. At
the phrase ‘‘Allahu Akbar’’—‘‘God is most great’’—all Mus-
lims in the audience placed their opened hands at the sides of
their faces.

An Official cortege, with the hearse, of three family cars, eigh-
teen mourners’ cars, twelve police cars and six press cars—
followed by about fifty other cars—briskly drove the eighteen
miles out of Manhattan and along the New York Thnway, then
off its Exit 7 to reach the Ferncliff Cemetery in Ardsley, N.Y.
All along the route, Negroes placed their hats or hands over
their hearts, paying their final respects. At each bridge crossing
in Manhattan County, police cars stood watch; the Westchester
County police had stationed individual patrolmen at intervals en
route to the cemetery.

Over the coffin, final Moslem prayers were said by Sheik
Alhajj Heshaam Jaaber. The coffin was lowered into the grave,
the head facing the east, in keeping with Islamic tradition.
Among the mourners, the Moslems knelt beside the grave to
pray with their foreheads pressed to the earth, in the Eastern
manner. When the family left the gravesite, followers of Mal-
colm X would not let the coffin be covered by the white grave-

EPILOGUE 463

diggers who had stood a little distance away, waiting. Instead,
seven OAAU men began dropping bare handfuls of earth down
on the coffin; then they were given shovels and they carried dirt
to fill the grave, and then mound it.

The night fell over the earthly remains of El-Hajj Malik El-
Shabazz, who had been called Malcolm X; who had been called
Malcolm Little; who had been called ‘*Big Red’’ and ‘‘Satan’’
and ‘‘Homeboy’’ and other names—who had been buried as a
Moslem. ‘‘According to the Koran,’’ the New York Times re-
ported, ‘‘the bodies of the dead remain in their graves until the
Last Day, the Day of Judgment. On this day of cataclysm the
heavens are rent and the mountains ground to dust, the graves
open and men are called to account by Allah.

‘‘The blessed—the godfearing, the humble, the charitable,
those who have suffered and been persecuted for Allah’s sake
or fought in religious wars for Islam—are summoned to the Gar-
den of Paradise.

‘‘There, according to the teaching of Mohammed, the
Prophet, they live forever by flowing streams, reclining on silken
cushions, and enjoying the company of dark-eyed maidens and
wives of perfect purity.

‘“The damned—the covetous, the evildoer, the follower of
gods other than Allah—are sent to Eternal Fire, where they are
fed boiling water and molten brass. ‘The death from which ye
flee will truly overtake you,’ the Koran says. “Then will ye be
sent back to the Knower of things secret and open, and He will
tell you the truth of the things that ye did.’ ”’

After signing the contract for this book, Malcolm X looked
at me hard. “‘A writer is what I want, not an interpreter.’’ I tried
to be a dispassionate chronicler. But he was the most electric
personality I have ever met, and I still can’t quite conceive him
dead. It still feels to me as if he has just gone into some next
chapter, to be written by historians.

New York, 1965

OSSIE DAVIS
ON MALCOLM X

Mr. Davis wrote the following in response to a magazine edi-
tor’s question: Why did you eulogize Malcolm X?

You are not the only person curious to know why I would eu-
logize a man like Malcolm X. Many who know and respect me
have written letters. Of these letters I am proudest of those from
a sixth-grade class of young white boys and girls who asked me
to explain. I appreciate your giving me this chance to do so.

You may anticipate my defense somewhat by considering the
following fact: no Negro has yet asked me that question. (My
pastor in Grace Baptist Church where I teach Sunday School
preached a sermon about Malcolm in which he called him a
‘‘giant in a sick world.’’) Every one of the many letters I got
from my own people lauded Malcolm as a man, and commended
me for having spoken at his funeral.

At the same time—and this is important—most of them took
special pains to disagree with much or all of what Malcolm said
and what he stood for. That is, with one singing exception, they
all, every last, black, glory-hugging one of them, knew that Mal-
colm—whatever else he was or was not—Malcolm was a man!

White folks do not need anybody to remind them that they are
men. We do! This was his one incontrovertible benefit to his people.

Protocol and common sense require that Negroes stand back
and let the white man speak up for us, defend us, and lead us
from behind the scene in our fight. This is the essence of Negro
politics. But Malcolm said to hell with that! Get up off your
knees and fight your own battles. That’s the way to win back
your self-respect. That’s the way to make the white man respect

464

ON MALCOLM X 465

you. And if he won’t let you live like a man, he certainly can’t
keep you from dying like one!

Malcolm, as you can see, was refreshing excitement; he scared
hell out of the rest of us, bred as we are to caution, to hypocrisy
in the presence of white folks, to the smile that never fades.
Malcolm knew that every white man in America profits directly
or indirectly from his position vis-a-vis Negroes, profits from
racism even though he does not practice it or believe in it.

He also knew that every Negro who did not challenge on the
spot every instance of racism, overt or covert, committed against
him and his people, who chose instead to swallow his spit and
go on smiling, was an Uncle Tom and a traitor, without balls or
guts, or any other commonly accepted aspects of manhood!

Now, we knew all these things as well as Malcolm did, but
we also knew what happened to people who stick their necks
out and say them. And if all the lies we tell ourselves by way of
extenuation were put into print, it would constitute one of the
great chapters in the history of man’s justifiable cowardice in
the face of other men.

But Malcolm kept snatching our lies away. He kept shouting
the painful truth we whites and blacks did not want to hear from
all the housetops. And he wouldn’t stop for love nor money.

You can imagine what a howling, shocking nuisance this man
was to both Negroes and whites. Once Malcolm fastened on you,
you could not escape. He was one of the most fascinating and
charming men I have ever met, and never hesitated to take his
attractiveness and beat you to death with it. Yet his iumtation,
though painful to us, was most salutary. He would make you angry
as hell, but he would also make you proud. It was impossible to
remain defensive and apologetic about being a Negro in his pres-
ence. He wouldn’t let you. And you always left his presence with
the sneaky suspicion that maybe, after all, you were a man!

But in explaining Malcolm, let me take care not to explain
him away. He had been a criminal, an addict, a pimp, and a
prisoner; a racist, and a hater, he had really believed the white
man was a devil. But all this had changed. Two days before his
death, in commenting to Gordon Parks about his past life he
said: ‘‘That was a mad scene. The sickness and madness of
those days! I’m glad to be free of them.’’

And Malcolm was free. No one who knew him before and

+66 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X

aftcr his trip to Mecca could doubt that he had completely aban-
doned racism, separatism, and hatred. But he had not abandoned
his shock-effect statements, his bristling agitation for immediate
freedom in this country not only for blacks, but for everybody.

And most of all, in the area of race relations, he still delighted
in twisting the white man’s tail, and in making Uncle Toms, com-
promisers, and accommodationists—I deliberately include my-
self—thoroughly ashamed of the urbane and smiling hypocrisy we
practice merely to exist in a world whose values we both envy and
despise.

But even had Malcolm not changed, he would still have been
a relevant figure on the American scene, standing in relation as
he does, to the ‘‘responsible’’ civil rights leaders, just about
where John Brown stood in relation to the ‘‘responsible’’ abo-
litionists in the fight against slavery. Almost all disagreed with
Brown’s mad and fanatical tactics which led him foolishly to
attack a Federal arsenal at Harpers Ferry, to lose two sons there,
and later to be hanged for treason.

Yet, today the world, and especially the Negro people, pro-
claim Brown not a traitor, but a hero and a martyr in a noble
cause. So in future, I will not be surprised if men come to see
that Malcolm X was, within his own limitations, and in his own
inimitable style, also a martyr in that cause.

But there is. much controversy still about this most controversial
American, and I am content to wait for history to make the final
decision.

But in personal judgment, there is no appeal from instinct. I knew
the man personally, and however much I disagreed with him, I
never doubted that Malcolm X, even when he was wrong, was
always that rarest thing in the world among us Negroes: a true man.

And if, to protect my relations with the many good white folks
who make it possible for me to earn a fairly good living in the
entertainment industry, I was too chicken, too cautious, to admit
that fact when he was alive, I thought at least that now, when
all the white folks are safe from him at last, I could be honest
with myself enough to lift my hat for one final salute to that’
brave, black, ironic gallantry, which was his style and hallmark,
that shocking zing of fire-and-be-damned-to-you, so absolutely
absent in every other Negro man I know, which brought him,
too soon, to his death.

If there was any one man who articulated
the anger, the struggle, and the beliefs of
African Americans in the 1960s, that man
was Malcolm X. His Autobiography is now
an established classic ro) maatele(=\eam-\aitsia ler: B
a book that expresses like none other the
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This book is the result of a unique

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Haley, whose own search for his African past,
inspired by his encounter with Malcolm X, led
him to write the celebrated bestseller Roots.

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